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APRIL.
SCENT of summer coming near,
Thought of swallows on the wing,
Hopes of autumn's richest blisses,
Fleecy clouds that drop a tear
On the buried winter's bier,
Breezes soft as young love's kisses, -
All of these doth April bring,
Yet a sense of half-known grief,
Something too deep-hid to tell,
Or too sacred for revealing,
Rises, spreads with flower and leaf,
And enforces our belief
With its sadness o'er us stealing
As the blossoms grow and swell.
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