An April Morning

Once more in misted April

The world is growing green.

Along the winding river

The plumey willows lean.

Beyond the sweeping meadows

The looming mountains rise,

Like battlements of dreamland

Against the brooding skies.

In every wooded valley

The buds are breaking through,

As though the heart of all things

No languor ever knew.

The golden-wings and bluebirds

Call to their heavenly choirs.

The pines are blued and drifted

With smoke of brushwood fires.

And in my sister's garden

Where little breezes run,

The golden daffodillies

Are blowing in the sun.