In Early Spring, Ere Roses Took

In early spring, ere roses took
A matronly unblushing look,
Or lilies had begun to fear
A stain upon their character,
I thought the cuckoo more remote
Than ever, and more hoarse his note.
The nightingale had dropt one half
Of her large gamut, and the laugh
Of upright nodding woodpecker
Less petulantly struck my ear.
Why have the birds forgot to sing,
Is this as in a former spring?
Can it be that the days are cold.
Or (surely no) that I am old.
Strange fancy! how could I forget
That I have not seen eighty yet!