“Here is April!” cuckoo cries

From the tall tree near the skies;

“April! April!” croaks the frog

From his dank hole in the bog;

“April!” sings the thrush again

From his clay nest in the lane.

April, ’tis thy merry weather

Makes the wild colt burst his tether;

April in his royal dower

Has soft sunbeam and sharp shower;

April is the very soul of youth,

Eye of love, and heart of truth—

That is April.

—Walter Thornbury, “The Twelve Brothers.”