HER LOVE-BIRDS

When I looked up at my love-birds

That Sunday afternoon,

There was in their tiny tune

A dying fetch like broken words,

When I looked up at my love-birds

That Sunday afternoon.

When he, too, scanned the love-birds

On entering there that day,

‘ Twas as if he had nought to say

Of his long journey citywards,

When he, too, scanned the love-birds,

On entering there that day.

And billed and billed the love-birds,

As‘ twere in fond despair

At the stress of silence where

Had once been tones in tenor thirds,

And billed and billed the love-birds

As‘ twere in fond despair.

O, his speech that chilled the love-birds,

And smote like death on me,

As I learnt what was to be,

And knew my life was broke in sherds!

O, his speech that chilled the love-birds,

And smote like death on me!