I
We are budding, master, budding,
We of your favourite tree;
March drought and April flooding
Arouse us merrily.
The stemlets brightly studding;
And yet you do not see.
II
We are fully woven for summer
In modes of limpest green,
The twitterer and the hummer
Here rest their rounds between,
While like a ‘long-roll’ drummer
The night-hawk thrills the treen.
III
We are turning yellow, master,
And next we are turning red,
And faster then and faster
Shall seek our rooty bed—
All wasted in disaster
The magic show we spread!
IV
‘I mark your early going,
And that you’ll soon be clay,
I have seen your summer showing
As in my youthful day;
But why I seem unknowing
Is too deep down to say.’
