This time of year, when but the Robin sings, Shall I reproach those Starlings, chuckling near? What Spring-like green is in their feverish haste To pock the face of my half-ripened pear! When I remember my own wilful blood, The waste, the wildness of my early years – Shall I not chuckle with those birds, when they With wicked music waste my sweetest pears? |