Poems (Hinxman)/A South Wind in April
A SOUTH WIND IN APRIL.
This April windFlows through the land, and ever in its trainLife wakens. Life, on its full bosom caught,Streams with its stream, in beauty, scent and sound.The stock-dove pours her passion forth, and joyIs clamoured from the rookery: the blithe cockShakes his clear cymbal in the farmer's yard;The very air is warbling o'er the downsWhere late the skylark cowered on rufiled breast;The blackbird spells his cadence o'er,—the same,Yet still of all desired. The Poet's heartSends forth its tender yearning messages In numbers sweet, or sweeter thoughts unsaid.The ploughman from the fresh-turned furrow drawsOdours which make him whistle for content;The babe is glad, it knows not why; and linesFrom cheerful hymns accost the sick man's thoughts:—He looks forth from his window, and he seesThe far-off hills spread out their smiling breastsTo greet the comer and invite his sweep;And he, too, spreads abroad his sun-lit soulTo meet a breath which stirs its placid joys;For in that bounteous visitant he knowsThe Maker's presence, and the Giver's love.
April 6. 1853.