by Andrew Young
I did not think nest-hiding spring
Could have so sharp a sting;
Where blossom from the wild pear shakes
Too rare a china breaks;
O spring, turn back,
Where hope still droops by the rain-driven track
That thrush that notes the passer-by
With beadlike eye,
Is she not warming with her breast
A brood to rob her nest,
While cuckoos shout
The name they will forget ere June is out?
I watched on olive-coloured ash
Buds like an inky splash;
Those black eyes turn to jealous green;
I would not so be seen.
Spring, turn or stay,
For once too often will you come this way.