Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings,
Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing —
‘ Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily?
Sad, sad, to think that the year is but begun.’
Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings,
Among the golden reed-beds I heard the starlings sing —
‘ Ah that sweet March month, when we and our mates were courting merrily;
Sad, sad, to think that the year is all but done.’