Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May New blooming blossoms 'neath the sun are born, And all poor April's charms are swept away.

Again the blackbirds sings; the streams Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams, And tremble in the April showers The tassels of the maple flowers.

I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.

Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas Of wheat, rye, barley, fetches, oats, and pease; Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep, And flat meads thatched with stover, them to keep; Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims, Which spongy April at thy hest betrims To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom groves, Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, Being lasslorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard; And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard, Where thou thyself dost air--the queen o' th' sky, Whose wat-ry arch and messenger am I, Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace, Here on this grass-plot, in this very place, To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain. Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.

Such comfort as do lusty young men feel When well-apparelled April on the heel Of limping Winter treads, even such delight Among fresh fennel buds shall you this night Inherit at my house.

Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.