From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
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From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him;
Yet nor the lays of birds, not the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odor and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
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April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

The April winds are magical,
And thrill our tuneful frames;
The garden-walks are passional
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The April winds are magical,
And thrill our tuneful frames;
The garden-walks are passional
To bachelors and dames.

Again the blackbirds sings; the streams
Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams,
And tremble in the April read more

Again the blackbirds sings; the streams
Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams,
And tremble in the April showers
The tassels of the maple flowers.

The lyric sound of laughter
Fills all the April hills
The joy-song of the crocus,
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The lyric sound of laughter
Fills all the April hills
The joy-song of the crocus,
The mirth of daffodils.

Oh, the lovely fickleness of an April day!

Oh, the lovely fickleness of an April day!

Make me over, Mother April,
When the sap begins to stir!
When thy flowery hand delivers
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Make me over, Mother April,
When the sap begins to stir!
When thy flowery hand delivers
All the mountain-prisoned rivers,
And thy great heart beats and quivers,
To revive the days that were.

When April winds
Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush
Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, read more

When April winds
Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush
Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up,
Opened in airs of June her multiple
OF golden chalices to humming birds
And silken-wing'd insects of the sky.

Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn
Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May
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Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn
Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May
New blooming blossoms 'neath the sun are born,
And all poor April's charms are swept away.