403
The Winters are so short
I'm hardly justified
In sending all the Birds away
And moving into Pod
Myself—for scarcely settled
The Phoebes have begun
And then—it's time to strike my Tent
And open House—again
It's mostly, interruptions
My Summer—is despoiled
Because there was a Winter—once
And al the Cattle—starved
And so there was a Deluge
And swept the World away
But Ararat's a Legend—now
And no one credits Noah