AN APRIL ARIA.

When the mornings dankly fall

With a dim forethought of rain,

And the robins richly call

To their mates mercurial,

And the tree-boughs creak and strain

In the wind;

When the river's rough with foam,

And the new-made clearings smoke,

And the clouds that go and come

Shine and darken frolicsome,

And the frogs at evening croak

Undefined

Mysteries of monotone,

And by melting beds of snow

Wind-flowers blossom all alone;

Then I know

That the bitter winter's dead.

Over his head

The damp sod breaks so mellow,—

Its mosses tipped with points of yellow,—

I cannot but be glad;

Yet this sweet mood will borrow

Something of a sweeter sorrow,

To touch and turn me sad.