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 Now the noisy winds are still;
 April's coming up the hill!
  All the spring is in her read more 
 Now the noisy winds are still;
 April's coming up the hill!
  All the spring is in her train,
   Led by shining ranks of rain;
    Pit, pat, patter, clatter,
     Sudden sun and clatter patter!
      . . . .
       All things ready with a will,
        April's coming up the hill! 
 Sweet April! many a thought
 Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
  Nor shall they fail, read more 
 Sweet April! many a thought
 Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
  Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,
   Life's golden fruit is shed. 
 A gush of bird-song, a patter of dew,
 A cloud, and a rainbow's warning,
  Suddenly sunshine and read more 
 A gush of bird-song, a patter of dew,
 A cloud, and a rainbow's warning,
  Suddenly sunshine and perfect blue--
   An April day in the morning. 
 Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn
 Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May
  read more 
 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. 
 Sweet April's tears,
 Dead on the hem of May.  
 Sweet April's tears,
 Dead on the hem of May. 
 Such comfort as do lusty young men feel
 When well-apparelled April on the heel
  Of limping Winter read more 
 Such comfort as do lusty young men feel
 When well-apparelled April on the heel
  Of limping Winter treads, even such delight
   Among fresh fennel buds shall you this night
    Inherit at my house. 
 April, April,
 Laugh thy girlish laughter,
  Then, the moment after,
   Weep thy girlish tears!  
 April, April,
 Laugh thy girlish laughter,
  Then, the moment after,
   Weep thy girlish tears! 
 Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas
 Of wheat, rye, barley, fetches, oats, and pease;
  Thy turfy read more 
 Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas
 Of wheat, rye, barley, fetches, oats, and pease;
  Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,
   And flat meads thatched with stover, them to keep;
    Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims,
     Which spongy April at thy hest betrims
      To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom groves,
       Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,
        Being lasslorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard;
         And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard,
          Where thou thyself dost air--the queen o' th' sky,
           Whose wat-ry arch and messenger am I,
            Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace,
             Here on this grass-plot, in this very place,
              To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain.
               Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. 
 She who from April dates her years,
 Diamonds should wear, lest bitter tears
  For vain repentance flow; read more 
 She who from April dates her years,
 Diamonds should wear, lest bitter tears
  For vain repentance flow; this stone,
   Emblem of innocence is known.