APRIL.
A FAINT, soft breath from low-hung skies
As if it swept o'er flowers;
A languid sweetness running through
The long day's dreamy hours;
The violet haze upon the hills
Drops on the leafless trees,
And in the west the setting sun
Is drowned in purple seas.
A sweet, green prescience clothes the fields;
And in the rocky dells
The violet and forget-me-not
Unclose their azure bells;
The streams, released from icy chains,
Down the grim highlands flow:
And the great river's troubled breast
Is white with foamy snow.
The fruit-trees droop with crimson buds,
A prophecy of bloom;
The crocus and the daffodil
The garden beds illume;
The pale arbutus springs to life,
And lifts its starry eyes
In quiet forest paths, and haunts
Where mellow sunshine lies.
Anon, upon the crystal air
Rings out the robin's note;
And from the tall elm, by the gate,
The bluebird's warblings float;
The lambs bleat on the pasture hills,
And frolic at their play
And all the earth is holding breath
To hear the step of May.
