p. 16

In the red April dawn, In the wild April weather, From brake and thicket and lawn The birds sing all together.

The look of the hoyden Spring Is pinched and shrewish and cold; But all together they sing Of a world that can never be old:

Of a world still young—still young!—  Whose last word won’t be said, Nor her last song dreamed and sung, Till her last true lover’s dead!

p. 17VII

p. 17

The April sky sags low and drear, The April winds blow cold, The April rains fall gray and sheer, And yeanlings keep the fold.

But the rook has built, and the song-birds quire, And over the faded lea The lark soars glorying, gyre on gyre, And he is the bird for me!

For he sings as if from his watchman’s height He saw, this blighting day, The far vales break into colour and light From the banners and arms of May.

p. 18VIII

p. 18

Shadow and gleam on the Downland Under the low Spring sky, Shadow and gleam in my spirit—  Why?

A bird, in his nest rejoicing, Cheers and flatters and woos: A fresh voice flutters my fancy—  Whose?

And the humour of April frolics And bickers in blade and bough— O, to meet for the primal kindness Now!

p. 19IX

p. 19

The wind on the wold, With sea-scents and sea-dreams attended, Is wine! The air is as gold In elixir—it takes so the splendid Sunshine!

O, the larks in the blue! How the song of them glitters, and glances, And gleams! The old music sounds new—  And it’s O, the wild Spring, and his chances And dreams!

There’s a lift in the blood—  O, this gracious, and thirsting, and aching Unrest! All life’s at the bud, And my heart, full of April, is breaking My breast.

p. 20X

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