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.