I remember once in Para how I heard your mother calling,
Calling “Pipi-wha-rau-roa” from a poplar by the river,
Crying slowly the one word.
And I burnt my eyes with gazing. Still I see the poplars shiver,
Still I hear the little runnels down the folded gully falling,
But I never saw the bird!

But I heard what you have heard not, for I heard your mother crying,
Crying out of Spring the Leafy, Spring the Slender, Spring the Comer,
Of the manuka and dew.
Who would dream that in her treason she would follow after Summer,
With her nestlings unattended, gaily after Summer flying,
And no thought at all of you!

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Why, then, foolish little fledglings, do you ever seek to follow?
What old meekness makes you follow that strange one that gave you over,
Nor remembered you a day?
Are the seas to you as homely as our fields of curling clover?
What old memory sends you blindly over hill and over hollow?
Do you never doubt the way?

But I lose my time in wonder, for you, too, in Spring returning,
Will cry “Pipi-wha-rau-roa” from the poplar by the river,
Loving Spring in every word.
You will cheat the little warbler, and to other shore lines turning,
You will flyaway forgetting, with your careless wings a-quiver.
Fly, then, faithless little bird.