I.
Oh, to be in
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard
In England—-now!!
II.
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the
Leans to the field and scatters on the
Blossoms and dewdrops—-at the bent spray's edge—-That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes
The buttercups, the little children's dower—-Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
