Poem by Alice Meynell

The October Redbreast

Autumn is weary, halt, and old;
    Ah, but she owns the song of joy!
Her colours fade, her woods are cold.
    Her singing-bird's a boy, a boy.

In lovely Spring the birds were bent
    On nests, on use, on love, forsooth!
Grown-up were they. This boy's content,
    For his is liberty, his is youth.

The musical stripling sings for play
    Taking no thought, and virgin-glad.
For duty sang those mates in May.
    This singing-bird's a lad, a lad.

1. To Silence
2. Free Will
3. The Two Questions
4. Unlinked
5. To Sylvia

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