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