1st of April, 1845

Sweet month of Venus, meekly thus begun,
Too pensive for a day of antique folly,
In yellow garb of quiet melancholy
Thy patient pastures sleep beneath the sun ;
And if a primrose peep, there is but one
Where wont the starry crowd to look so jolly.
Alone, amid the wood, the Christmas holly
Gleams on the bank with streaming rain fordone,
And yet the snowdrop and the daffodils
Have done their duty to the almanack.
And though the garden mould is blank and black.
With bloom and scent the gay mezereon fills
The longing sense ; and plants of other climes
In the warm greenhouse tell of better times.