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.
