“T is not this April day one sees,
Beguiled the way of orchard trees
’Neath snows of bloom and starting green —
Oh, not alone this spring I ween!
Nor this spring’s bird the Lover hears —
But all the birds of other years.
Dimly the senses apprehend
The amber sunset’s fragrant blend
Of buried loves and dear unrest
That linger in the blossomed West,
As ecstasies of Mays long flown
To lyric heavens of their own.
Yet, heart of Nature’s mystery!
Within each budding prophecy,
Each songful miracle of dawn —
Faint Springs forever passed and gone,
Look back at us with April eyes
From memory’s lost paradise.