He is a man in love with grass,

He shivers at a tree:

Thrill of wing in briar-bushes

Wildly at his heart pushes

Like the first, faint hint

A lover is let see.

If he had known a wordless song

As a bird he would sing;

Who took delight in slim rabbits,

Watched their delicate habits,

—Waited, by the briar-bush,

That flutter of wooing.

The sun looks hollowly:

Mocking’s where the water goes;

The breeze bitter in his nose:

Mocking eyes wide burning

—Lost, lost is he!