Make me over, Mother April, When the sap begins to stir! When thy flowery hand delivers All the mountain-prisoned rivers, And thy great heart beats and quivers, To revive the days that were.

Richard Hovey

Richard Hovey

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And you prate of the wealth of nations, as if it were bought and sold, The wealth of nations is men, not silk and cotton and gold.

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I do not know beneath what sky nor on what seas shall be thy fate; I only know it shall be high, I only know it shall be great.

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For 't is always fair weather When good fellows get together With a stein on the table and a good song ringing clear.

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For surely in the blind deep-buried roots Of all men's souls to-day A secret quiver shoots.

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I am fevered with the sunset, I am fretful with the bay, For the wander-thirst is on me And my soul is in Cathay.

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