SWEET April, with thy mingling tears and smiles,
Dear maid-child of the changing months that art,
What wit so blunt, what breast with sorrow's smart
So sore but must confess thy tender wiles?
What woes but thy capricious charm beguiles?
At thy sweet sight, the winter-thoughts depart
And with glad lips men say and gleeful heart,
'Belike we yet shall greet the Golden Isles.'
Pale as thy primrose, as thy violets sweet,
Thy varying stint thou fill'st of dainty days;
Yet, though thy bright prime passeth, still shall praise
And blessing follow on thy flitting feet
Nor Summer's sheen thy memory make less dear,
That bring'st the first-fruits of the flowering year.