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.