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.