April

April! April! April!
  With a mist of green on the trees--
And a scent of the warm brown broken earth
  On every wandering breeze;
What, though thou be changeful,
  Though thy gold turns to grey again,
There's a robin out yonder singing,
  Singing in the rain.

  April! April! April!
  'Tis the Northland hath longed for thee,
She hath gazed toward the South with aching eyes
  Full long and patiently.
Come now--tell us, sweeting,
  Thou laggard so lovely and late,
Dost know there's no joy like the joy that comes
  When hearts have learned to wait?