Her Love-birds

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!