He's forgotten how he smiled And shrieked at snowdrops when a child, Or wept one evening secretly For April's glorious misery.

Through the clear windows one could see the far-spreading countryside, white with rime, and stiffly slumbering under that crystal casing, like some venerated saint awaiting April's resurrection.

Yet when young April's husband showers Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the firstborn of her flowers To kiss thy feet, and crown thy head: To thee, dear Lamb!

In spite of these inharmonious tendencies in Browning, his poetry at times shows a lyric lightness, such as is heard in these lines: "Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In Englandnow!"

305 Fair CISTA, rival of the rosy dawn, Call'd her light choir, and trod the dewy lawn; Hail'd with rude melody the new-born May, As cradled yet in April's lap she lay.

And perfumes that were long ago distilled From April's pink and white, Again with all their old enchantment, filled

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

As fades the iris after rain In April's tearful weather, The vision vanished, as the strain And daylight died together.

[The public are being passionately warned against the threatened crush at watering-places in August of this year of Peace.] Stoutly we bore with April's icy blizzards; "The worst of Spring," we said, "will soon be through; Summer is bound to come and warm our gizzards

CONCORD HYMN, by Ralph Waldo Emerson, and beginning: "By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood And fired the shot heard round the world.

O, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf Round the elm-tree hole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In Englandnow!

Now that April's here and other stories.

April's kittens.

Now that April's there, by Daisy Neumann.

Now that April's there.

Now that April's here and other stories.

April's kittens.

Now that April's there, by Daisy Neumann.

Now that April's there.

" "O to be in England, now that April's there.

Or yet again, in lighter mood, Acanthus' boast: When Sol shall make the Easterne Seas his bed, When Wolves and Sheepe shall be together fed,... When Venus shal turn Chast, and Bacchus become sober, When fruit in April's ripe, that blossom'd in October,...

Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summers' pride; Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned In process of the seasons have I seen; Three April's perfumes in three hot Junes burned Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green.

I, with my trouses perched on cow-hide boots, Tuggin' my foundered feet out by the roots, Hev seen ye come to fling on April's hearse Your muslin nosegays from the milliner's, Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen to choose, An' dance your throats sore in morocker shoes: I've seen ye an' felt proud, thet, come wut would, Our Pilgrim stock wuz pithed with hardihood.

The empty ruins, lapsed again Into Nature's wide domain, Sow themselves with seed and grain As Day and Night and Day go by; And hoard June's sun and April's rain.

And May sits weeping in the shade The weeds on April's grave have made, Blown slantwise in the sobbing blast.