  The brook has broken through its glass, And where the snows were drifted Round tangled blades of last year’s grass, The yellow sun is sifted. Uncovered by the melting night And warm, deceiving day-time, The myrtle bed is green and bright As in the midst of Maytime! I almost fancy that I hear The hum of bees in clover, And from the maples, glad and clear, The first red-robin lover. A mock spring laughs in mocking skies, (O little buds, be wary!) And masking in sweet April’s guise The youthful year makes merry.
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