3

When April pours the colors of a shell

Upon the hills, when every little creek

Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake

In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell,

When strawberries go begging, and the sleek

Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak,

We shall live well — we shall live very well.

The months between the cherries and the peaches

Are brimming cornucopias which spill

Fruits red and purple, somber-bloomed and black;

Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches

We'll trample bright persimmons, while we kill

Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvas-back.