The Truth

Since I have seen a bird one day,

His head pecked more than half away;

That hopped about, with but one eye,

Ready to fight again, and die-

Ofttimes since then their private lives

Have spoilt that joy their music gives.

So when I see this robin now,

Like a red apple on the bough,

And question why he sings so strong,

For love, or for the love of song;

Or sings, maybe, for that sweet rill

Whose silver tongue is never still-

Ah, now there comes this thought unkind,

Born of the knowledge in my mind:

He sings in triumph that last night

He killed his father in a fight;

And now he’ll take his mother’s blood-

The last strong rival for his food.