WHILE APRIL RAIN WENT BY

Under a budding hedge I hid While April rain went by, But little drops came slipping through, Fresh from a laughing sky:

A-many little scurrying drops, Laughing the song they sing, Soon found me where I sought to hide, And pelted me with Spring.

And I lay back and let them pelt, And dreamt deliciously Of l.u.s.ty leaves and lady-blossoms And baby-buds I'd see

When April rain had laughed the land Out of its wintry way, And coaxed all growing things to greet With gracious garb the May.

SHAEMAS O SHEEL

SPRING

The dews drip roses on the meadows Where the meek daisies dot the sward.

And aeolus whispers through the shadows, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord!"

The golden news the skylark waketh And 'thwart the heavens his flight is curled; Attend ye as the first note breaketh And chrism droppeth on the world.

The velvet dusk still haunts the stream Where Pan makes music light and gay.

The mountain mist hath caught a beam And slowly weeps itself away.

The young leaf bursts its chrysalis And gem-like hangs upon the bough, Where the mad throstle sings in bliss O'er earth's rejuvenated brow.

ENVOI

Slowly fall, O golden sands, Slowly fall and let me sing, Wrapt in the ecstasy of youth, The wild delights of Spring.

FRANCIS LEDWIDGE

APRIL WEATHER

Oh, hush, my heart, and take thine ease, For here is April weather!

The daffodils beneath the trees Are all a-row together.

The thrush is back with his old note; The scarlet tulip blowing; And white--ay, white as my love's throat-- The dogwood boughs are glowing.

The lilac bush is sweet again; Down every wind that pa.s.ses, Fly flakes from hedgerow and from lane; The bees are in the gra.s.ses.

And Grief goes out, and Joy comes in, And Care is but a feather; And every lad his love can win, For here is April weather.

LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE

DAFFODILS

There flames the first gay daffodil Where winter-long the snows have lain: Who buried Love, all spent and still?

There flames the first gay daffodil.

Go, Love's alive on yonder hill, And yours for asking, joy and pain, There flames the first gay daffodil Where winter-long the snows have lain!

RUTH GUTHRIE HARDING

THE CROCUS FLAME

The Easter sunrise flung a bar of gold O'er the awakening wold.

What was thine answer, O thou brooding earth, What token of re-birth, Of tender vernal mirth, Thou the long-prisoned in the bonds of cold?

Under the kindling panoply which G.o.d Spreads over tree and clod, I looked far abroad.

Umber the sodden reaches seemed and seer As when the dying year, With rime-white sandals shod, Faltered and fell upon its frozen bier.

Of some rathe quickening, some divine Renascence not a sign!

And yet, and yet, With touch of viol-chord, with mellow fret, The lyric South amid the bough-tops stirred, And one lone bird An unexpected jet Of song projected through the morning blue, As though some wondrous hidden thing it knew.

And so I gathered heart, and cried again: "O earth, make plain, At this matutinal hour, The triumph and the power Of life eternal over death and pain, Although it be but by some simple flower!"

And then, with sudden light, Was dowered my veiled sight, And I beheld in a sequestered place A slender crocus show its sun-bright face.

O miracle of Grace, Earth's Easter answer came, The revelation of transfiguring Might, In that small crocus flame!

CLINTON SCOLLARD

THE EARLY G.o.dS

It is the time of violets.

It is the very day When in the shadow of the wood Spring shall have her say, Remembering how the early G.o.ds Came up the violet way.

Are there not violets And G.o.ds-- To-day?

WITTER BYNNER

A TULIP GARDEN

Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace!

Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry, With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye Of purple batteries, every gun in place.

Forward they come, with flaunting colors spread, With torches burning, stepping out in time To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead, We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime Parades the army. With our utmost powers We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers.

AMY LOWELL

TULIPS

Brave little fellows in crimsons and yellows, Coming while breezes of April are cold, Winter can't freeze you, he flies when he sees you Thrusting your spears through the redolent mold.

Jolly Dutch flowers, rejoicing in showers, Drink! ere the pageant of Spring pa.s.ses by!

Hold your carousals to Robin's espousals, Lifting rich cups for the wine of the sky!

Dignified urbans in glossy silk turbans, Burgherlike blossoms of gardens and squares, Nodding so solemn by fountain and column, What is the talk of your weighty affairs?

Pollen and honey (for such is your money),-- Gossip and freight of the chaffering bee,-- Prospects of growing,--what colors are showing,-- News of rare tulips from over the sea?