Why were you born when the snow was falling? 
You should have come to the cuckoo's calling 
Or when grapes are green in the cluster, 
Or, at least, when lithe swallows muster 
  For their far off flying 
  From summer dying. 

Why did you die when the lambs were cropping? 
You should have died at the apples' dropping, 
When the grasshopper comes to trouble, 
And the wheat-fields are sodden stubble, 
  And all winds go sighing 
  For sweet things dying.