  The April rain-drops tinkle In cuckoo-cups of gold, And warm south winds unwrinkle The buds the peach-boughs hold. In countless fluted creases The little elm-leaves show, While white as carded fleeces The dogwood blossoms blow. A rosy robe is wrapping The early red-bud trees; But still the haws are napping, Nor heed the honey-bees. And still in lazy sleeping The apple-buds are bound, But tulip-tips are peeping From out the garden ground. And yonder, gayly swinging Upon the turning vane, A robin redbreast singing Makes merry at the rain! |
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