April

April! April!  April! 

With a mist of green on the trees--

And a scent of the warm brown broken earth

On every wandering breeze;

What, though thou be changeful,

Though thy gold turns to grey again,

There's a robin out yonder singing,

Singing in the rain.

April  April  April 

'Tis the Northland hath longed for thee,

Thou laggard so lovely and late,

Dost know there's no joy like the joy that comes

When hearts have learned to wait? 

She hath gazed toward the South with aching eyes

Full long and patiently.

Come now--tell us, sweeting.

Virna Sheard