Explore "Sonnet Written on the Author's Birthday" by Robert Burns on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
On hearing a Thrush sing in his Morning Walk.
Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, / Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, / See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, / At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.
So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, / Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart; / Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, / Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.
I thank thee, Author of this opening day! / Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! / Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys- / What wealth could never give nor take away!
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, / The mite high heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.