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.