BIRDS AND NATURE.

In leafless woods, the purpled wind-flower sways,

And violets, in penciled lines, or blue,

Blossom in gentle groups, and, blanched of hue,

The fern unfolds, by painted orchis sprays.

The columbine, on hills and sandy braes

Swings to the bees, that colored pollens strew

Below its bells, while singing, soared from view,

The meadow-lark still mounts the heavenward ways.

I know thee, April! thine the azure mist,

Lifted and lowered, like a lady’s veil,

Before the rims of woodland sunshine kissed;

And thine the lated twilight’s golden sail,

When slanting lines of fire and amethyst,

Riot in withered field and sodden swale.

—Eliza Woodworth.

“Here is April!” cuckoo cries

From the tall tree near the skies;

“April! April!” croaks the frog

From his dank hole in the bog;

“April!” sings the thrush again

From his clay nest in the lane.

April, ’tis thy merry weather

Makes the wild colt burst his tether;

April in his royal dower

Has soft sunbeam and sharp shower;

April is the very soul of youth,

Eye of love, and heart of truth—

That is April.

—Walter Thornbury, “The Twelve Brothers.”