Snow on the ground, and blossoms on the trees!
A bitter wind sweeps madly 'cross the moor;
The children shiver at the cottage door,
And old men crouch beside the fire for ease.
Yet still the happy lark disdains the breeze;
The buds swell out, the primrose makes a floor
Of sylvan beauty, though the frost be hoar,
And ships are battling with tempestuous seas.
'Tis April still, but April wrapt in cloud, —
Month of sweet promise and of nature's bliss,
When earth leaps up at heaven's reviving kiss,
And flouts at winter lingering in her shroud.
Haste swiftly, spring, to banish drear decay,
And welcome summer with the smile of May.
