Oh, the lovely fickleness of an April day!

W. H. Gibson.    

	Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn
	Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May
	New blooming blossoms ’neath the sun are born,
	And all poor April’s charms are swept away.

Clare.    

	The children with the streamlets sing,
	When April stops at last her weeping;
	And every happy growing thing
	Laughs like a babe just roused from sleeping.

Lucy Larcom.    

	There is no glory in star or blossom
	Till looked upon by a loving eye;
	There is no fragrance in April breezes
	Till breathed with joy as they wander by.

Bryant.    

	Again the blackbirds sing; the streams
	Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams,
	And tremble in the April showers
	The tassels of the maple flowers.

Whittier.    

	When April winds
	Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush
	Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up,
	Opened in airs of June her multitude
	Of golden chalices to humming birds
	And silken-wing’d insects of the sky.

Bryant.    

	Sweet April! many a thought
	Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
	Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,
	Life’s golden fruit is shed.

Longfellow.    

	Every tear is answered by a blossom,
	Every sigh with songs and laughter blent,
	Apple-blooms upon the breezes toss them,
	April knows her own, and is content.

Susan Coolidge.