Starlings

This time of year, when but the Robin sings,

Shall I reproach those starlings, chuckling near?

What spring-like greed is in their feverish haste

To pock the face of my half-ripened pear!

When I remember my own wilful blood,

The waste, the wildness of my early years-

Shall I not chuckle with those birds, when they

With wicked music waste my sweetest pears?