The maddest noise that grows,
The birds, they make it in the spring,
At night’s delicious close.
Between the March and April line,
Beyond which summer hesitates,
Almost too heavenly near.
It makes us think of all the dead
That sauntered with us here,
By separation’s sorcery
Made cruelty more dear.
It makes us think of what we had,
And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those siren throats
Would go, and sing no more.