When the warm sun, that
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. I love the season well,
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-on of storms. From the earth's loosened
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, The drooping tree revives. The softly-warbled
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along The forest openings. When the bright sunset
The silver woods with light, the green slope
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows. And when the eve is born,
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,
Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star. Inverted in the
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,
And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below. Sweet April! many a
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.
Written before the age of nineteen.
