APRIL.

SCENT of summer coming near,

Thought of swallows on the wing,

Hopes of autumn's richest blisses,

Fleecy clouds that drop a tear

On the buried winter's bier,

Breezes soft as young love's kisses, -

All of these doth April bring,

Yet a sense of half-known grief,

Something too deep-hid to tell,

Or too sacred for revealing,

Rises, spreads with flower and leaf,

And enforces our belief

With its sadness o'er us stealing

As the blossoms grow and swell.