SONG OF A SECOND APRIL
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pril this year, not otherwiseThan April of a year ago,Is full of whispers, full of sighs,Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;Hepaticas that pleased you soAre here again, and butterflies. There rings a hammering all day,And shingles lie about the doors;In orchards near and far awayThe grey wood-pecker taps and bores;The men are merry at their chores,And children earnest at their play. The larger streams run still and deep,Noisy and swift the small brooks runAmong the mullein stalks the sheepGo up the hillside in the sun,Pensively,--only you are gone,You that alone I cared to keep.
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