APRIL

April! April! April!

With a mist of green on the trees —

And a scent of the warm brown broken earth

On every wandering breeze;

What, though thou be changeful,

Though thy gold turns to grey again,

There's a robin out yonder singing,

Singing in the rain.

April! April! April!

‘ Tis the Northland hath longed for thee,

She hath gazed toward the South with aching eyes

Full long and patiently.

Come now — tell us, sweeting,

Thou laggard so lovely and late,

Dost know there's no joy like the joy that comes

When hearts have learned to wait?