See now, where Spring has put young leaves
Fluttering like an emerald snow
Round the beech-trunks, and lovers enacting
Earth’s quaint mythologies below.
Another Venus, another Mars,
Before the Vulcan-net of crude
Fact mews them up, believe Creation
Was only built to frame their mood.
And now the green goes out of the Spring:
The lovers quarrel: one mind jolts
Upon its mate. But still, it is Hera
And Zeus playing at thunderbolts.
Disgruntled fools, you would think yourselves
Fortunate, did you guess how soon
Love, its Olympian discords vanished,
Becomes a barrel-organ tune.