In the gleam and gloom of the April weather,
When the snows have flown in the brooklet's flood,
And the Showers and Sunshine sport together,
And the proud Bough boasts of the baby Bud;
On the hillside brown, where the dead leaves linger
In crackling layers, all crimped and curled,
She parts their folds with a timid finger,
And shyly peeps at the waking world.

The roystering West Wind flies to greet her,
And bids her haste, with a gleeful shout:
The quickening Saplings bend to meet her,
And the first green Grass-blades call, "Come out!"
So, venturing forth with a dainty neatness,
In gown of pink or in white arrayed,
She comes once more in her fresh completeness,
A modest, fair little Pilgrim Maid.

Her fragrant petals, their beauties showing,
Creep out to sprinkle the hill and dell,
Like showers of Stars in the shadows glowing,
Or Snowflakes blossoming where they fell;
And the charmed Wood leaps into joyous blooming,
As though't were touched by a Fairy's ring,
And the glad Earth scents, in the rare perfuming,
The first sweet breath of the new-born Spring.