By William Stanley Braithwaite
The stream’s breath tastes of the wood’s perfume,
Filled are the woods with foam:
And the sea like a sheet ‘neath the summer noon,
With the languorous swerve runs home.
The beat of a pulse the warm sun stirs
In the air, the sea and stream,
Beckons the heart-and the soul allures
Forth, into April’s dream.