Classic Poem

Be glad, my spirit, for the world of snows
Has turned to one of greenness and of grace;
No longer the harsh breath of Winter blows,
But genial breezes fan me in the face;
Voices, long silent, wake to joyous sound,
Waters, long sullen, twinkle as they run;
Fresh flowers begin to constellate the ground,
Warmed into beauty by a brighter sun.
All seasons have their charms; but unto me,
Whose ailing frame has shivered in the blast,
Whose mind with sombre cares is overcast,
How sweet is Springtide's hope-inspiring glee!
April, on welcome but capricious wing,
Leaps o'er the verdant hills, and Nature cries, “'Tis Spring!”

Month of sweet promise! her mixed tears and smiles
Shed light and fragrance on the grateful earth;
Her very changefulness the heart beguiles,
And in the soul wakes thoughts of gladsome birth.
Sometimes she is as buoyant and as bright
As is the wood-nymph in her native bowers;
Sometimes a nun enswathed in chastened light;
Anon a very Magdalen in showers.
Yet all her moods are pleasant to our eyes,
And all her sighs are breathing of perfumes,
Lovely precursor of serener skies,
Of richer verdure, and of brighter blooms:
Behind her I behold her sister May,
Waiting to usher in her own delicious day