And see, the wild-rose reddens where it grew!
The green leaf fades that you may see the yellow;
We have the honey when we miss the bee;
Who wants the apples, scarlet-stained and mellow,
Must give the buds upon his orchard-tree;
Then, for those finely painted birds that follow
The sun about and scent their songs with flowers,
We have, when frosts are sharp and rains beat hollow,
These pretty, gray crumb-gathering pets of ours;
The butterflies (you could not catch) were brighter