Where are the songs I used to know,
        Where are the notes I used to sing?
        I have forgotten everything
I used to know so long ago;
Summer has followed after Spring;
        Now Autumn is so shrunk and sere,
I scarcely think a sadder thing
        Can be the Winter of my year.

Yet Robin sings through Winter's rest,
        When bushes put their berries on;
        While they their ruddy jewels don,
He sings out of a ruddy breast;
The hips and haws and ruddy breast
        Make one spot warm where snowflakes lie
They break and cheer the unlovely rest
        Of Winter's pause--and why not I?