Aloft where bends the tall elm's topmost crest,
Watching the sun, the robin sits and swings;
The amber light shines on his crimson breast,
And loud his carol rings.

The crocus buds break into starry bloom,
And in the wind the golden tulip rocks,
And garrulous sparrows chatter in the gloom
Of prim and rounded box.

The meadows stretching from the river, show
The fresh, cool green of early springing grass;
The bending willows droop their branches low,
As winds above them pass.

A shimmering haze lies on the dreamy slopes,
Of hills that rise against the lustrous west;
The waveless sea seems bright with radiant hopes
Of summer's peace and rest.

The south wind singing through the pasture, bends
The fern's low frond, crowning a mossy plinth;
And violet fragrance in the garden blends
With sweets of hyacinth.

The mellow sunlight, breaking through the rifts,
Burns like a flame along the widening plain,
And down the sloping valley slowly drifts
The murmur of the rain.

The yellow cowslips toss their cups of gold,
Where brooks go murmuring through the reedy marsh,
And crows among the blooming maples hold
A council loud and harsh.

The ploughman, whistling down the furrow, sees
Above the thin and opal-tinted mist,
The rounded cones of budding orchard trees,
Where blue-birds make their tryst.

The massive monarchs of the forest now
Are giant harps, melodious with song,
That vibrates through each quaintly twisted bough,
Swaying the hills along.

The fragrant morn, clad in soft robes of white,
Flings wide day's portal for the sunlit noon,
And deep the purple stillness of the night
Clings round the narrow moon.

And fair with blooms, and buds that tell of these,
Through merry songs across the valleys blown,
Fresh from the sweetness of south-lying seas.
Comes April to her own.