The Silent Sword
Ten years I’ve lived in this house of mine,
Annually watching the cold decline,
Observing spring’s pervading green,
And meeting again a bird benign.
It sings so soft a song serene,
On a branch high up unseen.
I listen closely in my yard,
Until it lands ten feet between.
Although I’m just a peaceful bard,
It stares at me with keen eyes hard.
It hops and pecks across the grass,
Mending that which had been marred.
As season shifts its actions amass
A truth transparent, clear as glass.
All things will come and pass,
All things will come and pass.
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Comments about this poem (Seasonal Robin by The Silent Sword )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Federico García Lorca
(5 June 1898 – 19 August 1936)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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