Poetry Archives

Alas! I see that thrushes three
     Are ravishing my old fig tree,
In whose green shade I smoked my pipe
     And waited for the fruit to ripe;
From green to purple softly swell
     Then drop into my lap to tell
That it is succulently sweet
     And excellent to eat.

And now I see the crimson streak,
     The greedy gash of yellow beak.
And look! the finches come in throng,
     In wavy passage, light with song;
Of course I could scare them away,
     But with a shrug: ‘The heck!’ I say.
I owe them something for their glee,
     So let them have their spree.

For all too soon in icy air
     My fig tree will be bleak and bare,
Until it wake from Winter sleep
     And button buds begin to peep.
Then broad leaves come to shelter me
     In luminous placidity.
Then figs will ripen with a rush
     And brash will come the thrush.

But what care I though birds destroy
My fruit,—they pay me back with joy.