When the pods went pop on the broom, green broom, And apples began to be golden-skinned, We harboured a stag in the Priory coomb.
IT makes no difference abroad, The seasons fit the same, The mornings blossom into noons, And split their pods of flame. Wild-flowers kindle in the woods, The brooks brag all the day; No blackbird bates his jargoning For passing Calvary. Auto-da-fé and judgment Are nothing to the bee; His separation from his rose To him seems misery.
The Moral is that gardeners pine, Whene'er no pods adorn the vine. Of all sad words experience gleans, The saddest are: "It might have beans." (I did not make this up myself: 'Twas in a book upon my shelf. It's witty, but I don't deny It's rather Whittier than I).