THE BIRTHDAY.
97
Oh, gay the day that April brings,When all about the wide air ringsWith melody of whistling wings,With rustling waters, and the sighOf odorous branches far and nigh,Where the bee murmurs as he clings,While up and down the glad winds strewThe rosy snow of apple blow!
Ah, if on some delicious day,Dropped out of heaven and into May,You first had wandered down this way,When mellow sunbeams wove their snareThrough azure vapors everywhere,And all the land in languor lay,It had not seemed a day so meet,So shy and fleet, so fresh and sweet!
