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.

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.

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.

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.

I love the season well
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded read more

I love the season well
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming of storms.

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.

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.

The children with the streamlets sing,
When April stops at last her weeping;
And every happy growing read more

The children with the streamlets sing,
When April stops at last her weeping;
And every happy growing thing
Laughs like a babe just roused from sleeping.