April Weather

Soon, ah, soon the April weather With the sunshine at the door, And the mellow melting rain-wind Sweeping from the South once more. Soon the rosy maples budding, And the willows putting forth, Misty crimson and soft yellow In the valleys of the North. Soon the hazy purple distance, Where the cabined heart takes wing, Eager for the old migration In the magic of the spring. Soon, ah, soon the budding windflowers Through the forest white and frail, And the odorous wild cherry Gleaming in her ghostly veil. Soon, about the waking uplands The hepaticas in blue,⁠— Children of the first warm sunlight In their sober Quaker hue,⁠— All our shining little sisters Of the forest and the field, Lifting up their quiet faces With the secret half revealed. Soon across the folding twilight Of the round earth hushed to hear, The first robin at his vespers Calling far, serene and clear. Soon the waking and the summons, Starting sap in bole and blade, And the bubbling marshy whisper Seeping up through bog and glade. Soon the frogs in silver chorus Through the night, from marsh and swale, Blowing in their tiny oboes All the joy that shall not fail,⁠— Passing up the old earth rapture By a thousand streams and rills, From the red Virginian valleys To the blue Canadian hills. Soon, ah, soon the splendid impulse, Nomad longing, vagrant whim, When a man’s false angels vanish And the truth comes back to him. Soon the majesty, the vision, And the old unfaltering dream, Faith to follow, strength to stablish, Will to venture and to seem; All the radiance, the glamour, The expectancy and poise, Of this ancient life renewing Its temerities and joys. Soon the immemorial magic Of the young Aprilian moon, And the wonder of thy friendship In the twilight—soon, ah, soon!