The sun, a fiddling merry-andrew, shrills Among the roadside flowers of the sky; Slippers are indiscreet beneath the hills' Silly Victorian petticoats lifted high. Oh, it's a crazy day, a Chaucer day, a day When that Aprille with her shoures sweet On the blue puddles foots her antic hey While the red-kerchiefed sun claps to her feet. The wind's a peasant betty, and she runs With wooden shoes and spills her pails of whey Rudely on April's rapt Endymions, Shakes out her apron, and goes on her way. And, gentlemen, it's no use venting spleen: April's perpetually seventeen. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MERELY STATEMENT by AMY LOWELL AN ODE TO THE FRAMERS OF THE FRAME BILL by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE CHOIR INVISIBLE by MARY ANN EVANS THE HAPPY WARRIOR by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH QUATRAIN: OMAR KHAYYAM (AFTER FITZGERALD) by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH FRIDAY NIGHT by ISIDORE G. ASCHER |