On the hills a want hung, Spring had lost her way,
All the buds were saying it day after day.
All the buds were saying it, sheathed to the mouth,
That April, April,
Fickle, heedless April,
Wayward, wanton April,
Was lost in the South!

All the buds were saying it, ‘Spring has lost her way,
And leaves us to the North Wind day after day!
Leaves us to the North Wind: naught can we do—
Till April, April,
Cruel, careless April,
Fickle, heedless April,
Shall find a way through!

Hourly did they say it. But now through the leaves
Violets are purpling up as earth's heart heaves.
Violets are purpling up by the happy rills—
For April, April,
Fairy-footed April,
Leafy, laughing April,
Has come along the hills!