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?