The roofs are shining from the rain,The sparrows twitter as they fly,And with a windy April graceThe little clouds go by.Yet the back yards are bare and brownWith only one unchanging tree--I could not be so sure of SpringSave that it sings in me.
Ahh, the wide almond groves in full white flowerStunning in the morning sun.Old naked Winter in his garb of grays and browns has run.Forsythia blooms come and go in the blink of a yellow Eye,Then, suddenly, mysteriously, Green erupts; and we sigh.
Tis spring; come out to rambleThe hilly brakes around,For under thorn and brambleAbout the hollow groundThe primroses are found.And theres the windflower chillyWith all the winds at play,And theres the Lenten lilyThat has not long to stayAnd dies on Easter day.
Let the rain kiss you.Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.Let the rain sing you a lullaby.The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.The rain makes running pools in the gutter.The rain plays a little sellp-song on our roof at night--And I love the rain.
The promise of these fragrant flowers,The fruit that neath these blossoms liesOnce hung, they say, in Edens bowers,And tempted Eve in Paradise.O fairest daughter of Eves blood,Lest her misprision thine should be,Ive nipped temptation in the budAnd send this snowy spray to thee.
Spring has again returned.The Earth is like a child that knows many poems.Many, O so many. For the hardshipof such long learning she receives the prize.Strict was her teacher.The white in the old mans beard pleases us.Now, what to call green, to call blue,we dare to ask: She knows, She knows!
My wretched feet, flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharpair of January, began to heal and subside under the gentlerbreathings of April; the nights and mornings no longer by theirCanadian temperature froze the very blood in our veins; wecould now endure the play-hour passed in the garden.
Last night I had a nightmare about an impending danger; and a wise man advised me to message to the first person who came to my mind for warding off the evil Thanks for being my savoiur And why only you? Because I was told that the person should be a lunatic And by the way Happy April Fool
When the clouds shake their hyssops, and the rainLike holy water falls upon the plain,Tis sweet to gaze upon the springing grainAnd see your harvest born.And sweet the little breeze of melodyThe blackbord puffs upon the budding tree,While the wild poppy lights upon the leaAnd blazes mid the corn.
An altered look about the hills;A Tyrian light the village fills;A wider sunrise in the dawn;A deeper twilight on the lawn;A print of a vermilion foot;A purple finger on the slope;A flippant fly upon the pane;A spider at his trade again;An added strut in chanticleer;A flower expected everywhere ...
The sun was warm but the wind was chill.You know how it is with an April day.When the sun is out and the wind is still,Youre one month on in the middle of May.But if you so much as dare to speak,a cloud come over the sunlit arch,And wind comes off a frozen peak,And youre two months back in the middle of March.
If you have a digital camera, take a picture of the toilet, then plug in your digital camera into a PC or TV (using TV-out) and get the picture on screen. When you see people coming out of the toilets, start laughing out loud and pointing. The person will come and see the picture and think you saw them in there !
In the glow of the dawn,Welcome a new day,Greet the golden sunlight or rain,Nature in all its subtlety.Whip of the wind,Earth unfolds,Softly falling rain,Growing plants and buds blossoming.Visions of the earth, with glories of nature,Beauty of the daffodils,Sunshine and rain from a rainbow,Awe! Nature in full bloom.
To what purpose, April, do you return again?Beauty is not enough.You can no longer quiet me with the rednessOf little leaves opening stickily.I know what I know.The sun is hot on my neck as I observeThe spikes of the crocus.The smell of the earth is good.It is apparent that there is no death.But what does that signify?
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of SpringThe Winter Garment of Repentance flingThe Bird of Time has but a little wayTo fly -- and Lo! The Bird is on the Wing.The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor WitShall lure it back to cancel half a Line,Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
