Poems (Allen)/April
For works with similar titles, see April.
HE strange, sweet days are here again, The happy-mournful days; The songs which tremble on our lips Are half complaint, half praise.
APRIL.
HE strange, sweet days are here again, The happy-mournful days; The songs which tremble on our lips Are half complaint, half praise. A sadness in the softened air, And in the tenderer sky; A touch of heartache everywhere: We weep, yet know not why.
The wind is full of memories; It whispers low and clear The sacred echoes of the past, And brings the dead more near.
The breath of budded hyacinths Is heavy on the breeze; The peach-tree twigs are strung with pink, And murmurous with bees.
Swing, robin, on the budded sprays, And sing your blithest tune;—Help us across these homesick days Into the joy of June!
