DEAR March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat—
You must have walked—
How out of breath you are!…
…Who knocks? That April!
Lock the door!
I will not be pursued!
He stayed away a year, to call
When I am occupied…
Oh, alright, April — come in then. Goodbye, March, if you must go — don’t forget to call on me next year! And April — if you have to drive away all the snowdrops in this dreadful way, bring me some primroses and violets to take their place, and for heaven’s sake don’t let it snow anymore! (Quite privately, April, I really don’t know what March think’s she’s doing with all the snow and rain and hail. It’s supposed to be Easter, after all. Don’t tell her I said so, though. She’s given me such beautiful catkins for the Easter tree this year — I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings for anything.)
Now for some more poetry:
Home Thoughts, From Abroad
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 England – now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops – at the bent spray’s edge –
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower
– Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower
From Over The Land is April
OVER the land is April,
Over my heart a rose;
Over the high, brown mountain
The sound of singing goes.
Say, love, do you hear me,
Hear my sonnets ring?
Over the high, brown mountain,
Love, do you hear me sing?