I

We are budding, Master, budding,
       &nbsp We of your favourite tree;
March drought and April flooding
       &nbsp Arouse us merrily,
Our stemlets newly studding;
       &nbsp And yet you do not see!

II

       &nbspWe are fully woven for summer
In stuff of limpest green,
The twitterer and the hummer
       &nbsp Here rest of nights, unseen,
While like a long-roll drummer
       &nbsp The nightjar thrills the treen.

III

We are turning yellow, Master,
       &nbsp And next we are turning red,
And faster then and faster
       &nbsp Shall seek our rooty bed,
All wasted in disaster!
       &nbsp But you lift not your head.
IV

- “I mark your early going,
       &nbsp And that you’ll soon be clay,
I have seen your summer showing
       &nbsp As in my youthful day;
But why I seem unknowing
       &nbsp Is too sunk in to say!”