Thou comest, May

Thou comest, May, with leaves and flowers,

And nights grow short, and days grow long;

And for thy sake in bush and tree,

The small birds sing, both old and young;

And only I am dumb and wait

The passing of a fish-like state.

You birds, you old grandfathers now,

That have such power to welcome spring,

I, but a father in my years,

Have nothing in my mind to sing;

My lips, like gills in deep-sea homes,

Beat time, and still no music comes.