Wearied one,
Rest a little in the sun.
Here is April come behind you
With a blessing on your head:
Rains unshed,
And her loving hands that blind you
While she queries, " Who am I?"
Of the darkened eye.
O, I heard the winter pass!
Came a sigh from waking grass
That should wake a daffodilly.
April, and up-rising now, — and every kind of lily!