When in the wintry woods you hear the note
Of some small robin piping his delight
Because the noonday sunshine warm and bright
Melts the sweet music from his tiny throat,
Say not with scorn, 'Why doth the silly bird
Twitter and chirrup, when the jubilant cries
With which the Lark scales the blue vaulted skies
Beyond his golden corn-field scarce are heard?'
The God who bade His creatures all rejoice
Amid the thunderous music of the spheres,
Gives heed to every soul that speaks—and hears,
Well pleas'd, the little Redbreast's thankful voice.
Therefore sing I—and these my feeble lays
Join to the universal hymn of Praise.
Frances Anne Kemble
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-91/
