| |
| HARK to the silvery sound | |
| Of the soft April shower! | |
| Telleth it not a pleasant tale | |
| Of bird and bee and flower? | |
| See, as the bright drops fall, | 5 |
| How swell the tiny buds | |
| That gem each bare and leafless bough | |
| Like polished agate studs. | |
| |
| The alder by the brook | |
| Stands in her tasselled pride; | 10 |
| Oh, the pale willow decketh her | |
| As might beseem a bride; | |
| And round the old oak’s foot, | |
| Where in their wintry play | |
| The winds have swept the withered leaves, | 15 |
| See, the Hepatica! | |
| |
| Its brown and mossy buds | |
| Greet the first breath of Spring; | |
| And to her shrine its clustered flowers | |
| Their earliest offering bring. | 20 |
| In rocky cleft secure, | |
| The gaudy columbine | |
| Shoots forth, ere wintry snows have fled, | |
| A floral wreath to twine. | |
| |
| And many a bud lies hid | 25 |
| Beneath the foliage sere, | |
| Waiting spring’s warm and wooing breath | |
| To deck the vernal year, | |
| When, lo! sweet April comes— | |
| The wild bird hears her voice, | 30 |
| And through the groves on glancing wing | |
| Carols, ‘Rejoice! rejoice!’ | |
| |
| Forth from her earthy nest | |
| The timid wood-moose steals, | |
| And the blithe squirrel on the bough | 35 |
| Her genial influence feels. | |
| The purple hue of life | |
| Flushes the teeming earth; | |
| Above, around, beneath the feet, | |
| Joy, beauty, spring to birth. | 40 |
| |
| But on the distant verge | |
| Of the cerulean sky | |
| Old Winter stands with angry frown | |
| And bids the siren fly. | |
| He waves his banner dark, | 45 |
| Raises his icy hand, | |
| And the fierce storms of sleet and hail | |
| Obey his grim command. | |
| |
| She feareth not his wrath, | |
| But hides her sunny face | 50 |
| Behind a soft cloud’s fleecy fold | |
| For a brief instant’s space; | |
| Then looketh gaily forth | |
| With smile of magic power, | |
| That changeth all his icy darts | 55 |
| To a bright diamond shower. | |
| |
| Capricious April, hail! | |
| Herald of all things fair! | |
| ’Tis thine to loose the imprisoned streams, | |
| The young buds are thy care. | 60 |
| To unobservant eye | |
| Thy charms are few, I ween; | |
| But he who roves the woodland paths | |
| Where thy blithe foot hath been, | |
| |
| Will trace thee by the tufts | 65 |
| Of fragrant early flowers, | |
| That thy sweet breath hath waked to deck | |
| The dreary forest bowers; | |
| And by the bursting buds, | |
| That at thy touch unfold | 70 |
| To clothe the tall trees’ naked arms | |
| With beauty all untold; | |
| |
| Will hear thy tuneful voice | |
| In the glad leaping streams, | |
| And catch thy bland, yet fitful smile | 75 |
| In showers and sunny gleams;— | |
| Then welcome, April fair, | |
| Bright harbinger of May, | |
| Month of blue skies and perfumed airs— | |
| The young year’s holiday! | 80 |
| |
