By Mary Bartol

O thou month of various moods,
Of sunshine and of mist,
As if thy odd vicissitudes
First quarreled, and then kissed;
I fear thy inconstant winds that blow
Wherever winds can blow;
I fear thy sly, illusive snows,
Which come like ghosts, like phantoms go.

The lilac buds begin to pout,
And crocuses arise
In grassy plots, and stare about,
With half-bewildered eyes,
On gloomy earth and murky sky,
Both clouded with a frown;
And crouch with faces all awry,
Till, like a sprite from Araby,
Some helping breeze has flown.

Capricious April, warm thy breath,
And wake the sleepy crowd
Of folded buds, that close beneath
The juniper are bowed;
And call a smile into the dawn,
And coax that smile to stay,
Then laugh, and shout, and push the morn
With frolic into day!

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