The Masterless Man

Now it is my turn to sing
In the service of the spring ;
I must lift a note and call
Bird and beast to madrigal.

But on mountain, peak, and shelf,
Over wood and plain and glade,
Spring is singing for herself,
She can do without my aid.

She can do without my aid !
So I need not sing to you :
Singing is my only trade !
What the deuce am I to do ?

Songs From The Clay [1915]