The boy lifts up his hands and dives, A pleasant plunge that has no dread, But I recall some precious lives, Which thus were reckoned ’mongst the dead, And in my heart, at end of day, A prayer for the lads I say.
Song of the West-wind o’er the waves, Song of the billows, as the lave The shoreline with a mystic moan, Song of the rushes in the shallow, Song of the aspen tree and sallow,-- Ever as the undertone.
Song of cicadas and the cricket From ragged grasses and the thicket, Song of the whirring dragon-fly, That goes to sea, but for to die, Song of the warblers, flitting nigh, Song of the loon’s weird, distant cry.
Song of a horn on yonder hill, That echoes in the far away, The tone is soft as of a rill,-- “The end of a perfect day”-- As sinks the sun, and I depart, With all this music in my heart.
A dull, pink evening sky, A white ridge shadow-streaked below, The tall, dark trees near by,-- In the deep snow.
Two horses, one is white, As white as is the new-fall’n snow, The other black as darkest night,-- Along the highway go.
One, emblem of the parting day, The other, of approaching night, And o’er the hill the rosy ray Of this one hour’s delight.
O, I love the month of April, when the southwind gently blows, Calling nature from its slumber, from cold winter’s long repose, Till the meadow its awakening by a tint of verdure shows, And the willow with bright saffron in the evening sunshine glows;
When the meadow-lark is standing on the fence-post, with its throat Lifted up to merry lovesongs which across the prairies float; When the robin on the house-lawn proudly stands in his red coat, Then a-sudden makes departure with a shrill and happy note;--
When the air is full of meaning, clothed in life’s sweet mystery, Touching all things with its magic, even with love’s ecstasy, And you see it and you feel it, it is upon land and sea, It is nature’s Easter dawning after drear Gethsemane.
And the children’s faces brighten, and their laughter has a ring Which no winter-sport could give them, and no lamplight play could bring; Even the aged in whose bosom life’s enchantments seldom sing, Take a pleasure in the message of this happy month of spring.
Jocund April, lovely April, of all months my choice thou art, Since in thee there is a solace for all nature’s weary heart, And in thee there is a promise that we all shall have a part In the hope which man professes through his worship and his art.