When April winds arrive
And the soft rains are here,
Some morning by the roadside
These gipsy folk appear.
We never see their coming,
However sharp our eyes;
Each year as if by magic
They take us by surprise.
Along the ragged woodside
And by the green spring-run,
Their small white heads are nodding
And twinkling in the sun.
They crowd across the meadow
In innocence and mirth,
As if there were no sorrow
In all the lovely earth.
So frail, so unregarded,—
And yet about them clings
That exquisite perfection,
The soul of common things!
Think you the springing pastures
Their starry vigil kept,
To hear along the midnight
Some message, while we slept?
How else should spring requicken
Such glory in the sod?
I guess that trail of beauty
Is where the angel trod.