April, when I heard
Your lyrical low word,
And when upon the hawthorn hedge your first white blossoms stirred,

Something strangely came--
Something I cannot name--
And touched my heart, and cleansed my soul with a reviving flame.

When the yellow gleam
Of your hosts that stream--
Jonquil, buttercup, and crocus--made the world a golden dream,

Something, April, said
To my heart that bled--
Bled with old remembrance--'Lo! the grief-strewn days are fled!
Sursum corda!
Now,
When blooms the apple-bough,
April, of your pity, let your light rain kiss my brow;

Heal me, if you will;
Bathe my heart until
I am one with your first primrose or the shining daffodil.