SWEET spring, which in the gentle heart dost burn,
Thou giv’st to men more joy than is their due.
Now it is April, and the birds return,
And every field is spread with verdure new.
And, each in its known hue,
The firstling garlands of the woodland shy
Have strewn the withered groves with their delight.
The cornel and the shad tree, high and white,
Like troops of dancers on the hillside fly.
For now that tide is nigh
When, hoarse with tumult in the clamorous plain,
The wild voice of the stream wakes all night long,
And, day by day, the waters’ rustling song
Sounds in the swollen pastures, steeped with rain.
April, thy sweet domain
Is filled with wakefulness in every part.
The brooding farmer, restless with the year,
Hath eyed his plough with newly quickened heart.
Daily, birds come; the first weak moths appear;
And, to the hillside near,
The sun at evening lingers to depart.