POETRY.
IN APRIL.
Nov a breath to break the stillness, Not a cloud to fleck the blue, But the sky-lark in the sunshine, And the primrose in the dew.
Buds are bursting in the hedges, Leaves are creeping up the lane, Everywhere the sap is stirring, Love returns to life again.
Sing out, nightingale and linnet, Blush, sweet flowers, in silent bliss, Murmur, brook, with softest music, Trembling at the Spring's first kiss.
Joy is dreaming in the meadows, Peace is in the forest glade, Hope, tip-toe with eager rapture, Thrills the breast of youth and maid.
Thus the old earth, fresh and lusty, Is still young at heart, we see ; Nature's beauty knows no wrinkles, It is we who change, not She.
We have lost life's early lessons, Spurned at Nature's silent grace, Dropped her gentle hand while struggling In the dusty, weary race.
Glad no more with childhood's gladness, Borne no more on childhood's wing, Grave with sorrow, worn with labour, Autumn's griefs are ours in Spring.
In the green, fair days of April, Buried thoughts rise up once more ; Dreams long dreamt come back, recalling Shadows from a shadowy shore.
Help us, Heaven, with timely courage, Duty, calm our wayward will ; If the pains of memory daunt us, Faith and Hope are stronger still!
on DENNIS.
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