O LITTLE buds, break not so fast!
The spring's but new.
The skies will yet be brighter blue,
And sunny too.
I would you might thus sweetly last
Till this glad season's overpast,
Nor hasten through.

It is so exquisite to feel
The light warm sun;
To merely know the winter done,
And life begun;
And to my heart no blooms appeal
For tenderness so deep and real,
As any one

Of these first April buds, that hold
The hint of spring's
Rare perfectness that May-time brings.
So take not wings!
Oh, linger, linger, nor unfold
Too swiftly though the mellow mould,
Sweet growing things!

And errant birds, and honey-bees,
Seek not to wile;
And, sun, let not your warmest smile
Quite yet beguile
The young peach-boughs and apple-trees
To trust their beauty to the breeze;
Wait yet awhile!