APRIL, when I heard Your lyrical low word, And when upon the hawthorn hedge your first white blossoms stirred, Something strangely came -- Something I cannot name -- And touched my heart, and cleansed my soul with a reviving flame. When the yellow gleam Of your hosts that stream -- Jonquil, buttercup, and crocus -- made the world a golden dream, Something, April, said To my heart that bled -- Bled with old remembrance -- "Lo! the grief-strewn days are fled!" @3Sursum corda!@1 Now, When blooms the apple-bough, April, of your pity, let your light rain kiss my brow; Heal me, if you will; Bathe my heart until I am one with your first primrose or the shining daffodil! |