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.
Again, as always, when the shadows fall,
In that sweet space between the dark and day,
I leave the present and its fretful claims
And seek the dim past where my memories stay.
I dream an old, forgotten, far-off dream,
And think old thoughts and live old scenes anew,
Till suddenly I reach the heart of Spring—
The spring that brought me you!
I see again a little woody lane,
The moonlight rifting golden through the trees;
I hear the plaintive chirp of drowsy bird
Lulled dreamward by a tender, vagrant breeze;
I hold your hand, I look into your eyes,
I touch your lips,—oh, peerless, matchless dower!
Oh, Memory thwarting Time and Space and Death!
Oh, Little Perfect Hour!