AN APRIL GUST.

It shall be as it hath been.

All the world is glad and green —

Hush! Ah, hush! There cannot be

April now for you and me.

Put your finger on the lips

Of your soul; the wild rain drips;

The wind goes diving down the sea;

Tell the wind, but tell not me.

Yet if I had aught to tell,

High as heaven, or deep as hell,

Bent the fates awry or fit,

I would find a word for it.

Oh, words that neither sea nor land

Can lift their ears to understand!

Wild words, as dumb as death or fear,

I dare to die, but not to hear!