The unforgetful April stars
Above the wood in legions rise;
A little lingering while they drift
Across the quiet middle skies,
Until at last their slow gleam fades

Where the low hills wait, brooding-wise.

And I—I call them all by name
(Crying your name to each of them):
Lo, this—I say—marks her white throat;
And this, her golden garment’s hem;
And these (I count them—seven) these,
God fashioned for her diadem!