April

Weary at heart with winter yesterday,
I sought the fields for something green to see,
Some budded turf or mossbank quietly
Uncovered in the sweet familiar way.
Crossing a pasture slope that sunward lay,
I suddenly surprised beneath a tree
A girlish creature who at sight of me
Sprang up all wild with daintiest dismay.
“Stay, pretty one!” I cried,—“who art thou, pray?”
Mid tears and freaks of pettish misery,
And sighing, “I am April,” answered she;
“I rear the field flowers for my sister May.”
Then with an arch laugh sidewise, clear and strong,
Turned blithely up the valley with a song.