Once more in misted April
The world is growing green.
Along the winding river
The plumey willows lean.
–
Beyond the sweeping meadows
The looming mountains rise,
Like battlements of dreamland
Against the brooding skies.
–
In every wooded valley
The buds are breaking through,
As though the heart of all things
No languor ever knew.
–
The golden-wings and bluebirds
Call to their heavenly choirs.
The pines are blued and drifted
With smoke of brushwood fires.
–
And in my sister’s garden
Where little breezes run,
The golden daffodillies
Are blowing in the sun.
– An April Morning by William Bliss Carman