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			 April is the cruelest month, breeding
 Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
  Memory and desire, stirring
read more 
	 April is the cruelest month, breeding
 Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
  Memory and desire, stirring
   Dull roots with spring rain. 
		
 
	
			 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 April winds are magical,
 And thrill our tuneful frames;
  The garden-walks are passional
   read more 
	 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. 
		
 
	
			 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! 
		
 
	
			 Sweet April-time--O cruel April-time!
 Year after year returning, with a brow
  Of promise, and red lips with read more 
	 Sweet April-time--O cruel April-time!
 Year after year returning, with a brow
  Of promise, and red lips with longing paled,
   And backward-hidden hands that clutch the joys
    Of vanished springs, like flowers. 
		
 
	
			 Make me over, Mother April,
 When the sap begins to stir!
  When thy flowery hand delivers
 read more 
	 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. 
		
 
	
			 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. 
		
 
	
			 The first of April, some do say
 Is set apart for All Fools' day;
  But why the read more 
	 The first of April, some do say
 Is set apart for All Fools' day;
  But why the people call it so,
   Nor I, nor they themselves, do know.