The Robin’s my Criterion for Tune— Because I grow—where Robins do— But, were I Cuckoo born— I’d swear by him— The ode familiar—rules the Noon— The Buttercup’s, my Whim for Bloom— Because, we’re Orchard sprung— But, were I Britain born, I’d Daisies spurn— None but the Nut—October fit— Because, through dropping it, The Seasons flit—I’m taught— Without the Snow’s Tableau Winter, were lie—to me— Because I see—New Englandly— The Queen, discerns like me— Provincially—
