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 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. 
 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. 
 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. 
 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. 
 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. 
 From you have I been absent in the spring,
 When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
  read more 
 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. 
 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. 
 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. 
 Sweet April's tears,
 Dead on the hem of May.  
 Sweet April's tears,
 Dead on the hem of May.