I.
Who cares to think of autumn leaves in spring?
When the birds sing,
And buds are new, and every tree is seen
Veil’d in a mist of tender gradual green;
And every bole and bough
Makes ready for the soft low-brooding wings
Of nested ones to settle there and prove
How sweet is love;
Alas, who then will notice or avow
Such bygone things?