When April's here and meadows wide Once more with spring's sweet growths are pied I close each book, drop each pursuit, And past the brook, no longer mute, I joyous roam the countryside. Look, here the violets shy abide And there the mating robins hide— How keen my sense, how acute, When April's here! And list! down where the shimmering tide Hard by that farthest hill doth glide, Rise faint strains from shepherd's flute, Pan's pipes and Berecyntian lute. Each sight, each sound fresh joys provide When April's here.
If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing,
Then better far the hateful fret, the sting.
Better the wound forever seeking balm
Than this gray calm!
Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache,
The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake,
Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath
Than passion's death!