When I looked up at my love-birds

   That Sunday afternoon,

   There was in their tiny tune

A dying fetch like broken words,

When I looked up at my love-birds

   That Sunday afternoon.

When he, too, scanned the love-birds

   On entering there that day,

   ’Twas as if he had nought to say

Of his long journey citywards,

When he, too, scanned the love-birds,

   On entering there that day.

And billed and billed the love-birds,

   As ’twere in fond despair

   At the stress of silence where

Had once been tones in tenor thirds,

And billed and billed the love-birds

   As ’twere in fond despair.

O, his speech that chilled the love-birds,

   And smote like death on me,

   As I learnt what was to be,

And knew my life was broke in sherds!

O, his speech that chilled the love-birds,

   And smote like death on me!