Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings, Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing -- 'Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily? Sad, sad, to think that the year is but begun.' Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings, Among the golden reed-beds I heard the starlings sing -- 'Ah that sweet March month, when we and our mates were courting merrily; Sad, sad, to think that the year is all but done.'