Song Of A Second April

April this year, not

Than April of a year ago,

Is full of whispers, full of sighs,

Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;

Hepaticas that pleased you

Are here again, and butterflies.

There rings a hammering all day,

And shingles lie about the doors;

In orchards near and far

The grey wood-pecker taps and bores;

The men are merry at their chores,

And children earnest at their play.

The larger streams run still and deep,

Noisy and swift the small brooks

Among the mullein stalks the

Go up the hillside in the sun,

Pensively,—only you are gone,

You that alone I cared to keep.