Eggs

Herbert Asquith

Bob has blown a hundred eggs,
Blue and olive, white and grey;
Warbler, nightingale, and thrush,
Bob has blown their songs away!

Low in spotless wool they rest,
Purest blue and clouded white,
Streaked with cinnamon and red,
Flecked with purples of the night;

Mute and gleaming, row on row,
Lie the tombstones of the spring!
What a chorus would there be
If those eggs began to sing!