All that we know of April is her way Of coming on the world through gentle springs, Turning the hedge a whitening line of spray, Staining the grass with shivered, golden things. She has a way of rain against the sun, Of moonlit orchards, ghostly white and still, And the slow, silver coming, one by one, Of burning stars above a purple hill. And this is all we know of such as she, These shining names she leaves for us to call: The whitening hedge, the showery apple tree, And golden jonquils gathering by a wall. . . . All that we know of April is her way, And these bright legends we have learned to say. |