The bird of Spring has flown away. Long south
her feathers trail, forgetting cool wind song
and coos of happiness. And why's she wrong
to soar above my love with scattered youth?
Another bird is nesting in cold groups
on Scotland’s shore, her plumage bright and long;
enamoured of her shrilling calls among
exhaling frosty nights and twisting swoops.
I, who have seen so many flocks that made
the fleeting joy trill, still am sad to know
they're gone, perhaps never to return again
or if they do perhaps changed, with wings outsplayed
to other mates, with other rhymes to show
that catch the dry wind’s struggle on the plain