  O, I love the month of April, when the southwind gently blows, Calling nature from its slumber, from cold winter’s long repose, Till the meadow its awakening by a tint of verdure shows, And the willow with bright saffron in the evening sunshine glows; When the meadow-lark is standing on the fence-post, with its throat Lifted up to merry lovesongs which across the prairies float; Then a-sudden makes departure with a shrill and happy note;— When the air is full of meaning, clothed in life’s sweet mystery, Touching all things with its magic, even with love’s ecstasy, And you see it and you feel it, it is upon land and sea, It is nature’s Easter dawning after drear Gethsemane. And the children’s faces brighten, and their laughter has a ring Which no winter-sport could give them, and no lamplight play could bring; Even the aged in whose bosom life’s enchantments seldom sing, Take a pleasure in the message of this happy month of spring. Jocund April, lovely April, of all months my choice thou art, Since in thee there is a solace for all nature’s weary heart, And in thee there is a promise that we all shall have a part In the hope which man professes through his worship and his art. |
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