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LXIII. APRIL MORNINGS.
I
A thousand are the minstrel tonguesIn this unequal clime,
Whose sweetest notes have been of spring
And of her primrose time.
II
More songs hath April of her gifts,—Bright sun and rainy breeze,
Than May with her pale flower-beds,
And June with her broad trees.
III
I dare not join the mighty soulsUpon the poet's hill,
Though, looking long on those green heights,
My dream may come true still.
IV
Yet will I hymn this season goodWhich doth such joy impart,
And wakes new fervour in the blood,
Old lightness in the heart.
V
It takes the fetters from the lyreOn April's first white dawn,
When the sun is on the evergreens
Upon the college lawn.
212
VI
It doth unlock young fancy's wellsTo run all summer long,
Till the whole heart is overflowed
With unimprisoned song.
VII
Those wells are chartered for the yearTo wind o'er field and hill,
Early and late, in sun and shower,
Speaking in songs at will.
VIII
All things are metrical and free,That taste of spring's wild treasure;
Our very thoughts, in their first joy,
Come out in lyric measure.
IX
Yet, Brother, most I love this time,—For Spring, as she goes by,
Will trim the fires of the old year
In thy dark speaking eye.
X
Last summer's harp from yon oak-tree,Young Poet! thou shalt bring,
And we will play a measure here
In honour of the Spring!
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