Autumn is weary, halt, and old;
Ah, but she owns the song of joy!
Her colours fade, her woods are cold.
Her singing-bird’s a boy, a boy.
In lovely Spring the birds were bent
On nests, on use, on love forsooth!
Grown-up were they. This boy’s content,
For his is liberty, his is youth.
The musical stripling sings for play
Taking no thought, and virgin-glad.
For duty sang those mates in May.
This singing-bird’s a lad, a lad.