The October Redbreast

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.