April in the morning, and the sky a mist of rose;
Pussy willows swaying where the willow buds unclose;
The dawning light, and breezes that blow from fields new-shorn
Bring me the scent of springtime, on an April morn.
April in the valley, and a noontide sun swung low;
April in the treetops where the blue sky seems to blow;
Elfin echoes ringing through the miles of setting sun;
A hymn of praise ascending when April’s day is done.
April’s resurrection tells to me a truth that’s dear:
The world was only sleeping when winter-time was here.

– Circa 1928

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