APRIL.

“Here is April!” cuckoo cries From the tall tree near the skies; “April! April!” croaks the frog From his dank hole in the bog; “April!” sings the thrush again From his clay nest in the lane. April, ’tis thy merry weather Makes the wild colt burst his tether; April in his royal dower Has soft sunbeam and sharp shower; April is the very soul of youth, Eye of love, and heart of truth— That is April. —Walter Thornbury, “The Twelve Brothers.”