April
April, pride of woodland ways,
Of glad days,
April, bringing hope of prime,
To the young flowers that beneath
Their bud sheath
Are guarded in their tender time;
April, pride of fields that be
Green and free,
That in fashion glad and gay,
Stud with flowers red and blue,
Every hue,
Their jewelled spring array;
April, pride of murmuring
Winds of spring,
That beneath the winnowed air,
Trap with subtle nets and sweet
Flora’s feet,
Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair;
April, by thy hand caressed,
From her breast
Nature scatters everywhere
Handfuls of all sweet perfumes,
Buds and blooms,
Making faint the earth and air.
April, joy of the green hours,
Clothes with flowers
Over all her locks of gold
My sweet Lady; and her breast
With the blest
Birds of summer manifold.
April, with thy gracious wiles,
Like the smiles,
Smiles of Venus; and thy breath
Like her breath, the Gods’ delight,
(From their height
They take the happy air beneath)
It is thou that, of thy grace,
From their place
In the far-oft isles dost bring
Swallows over earth and sea,
Glad to be
Messengers of thee, and Spring.
Daffodil and eglantine,
And woodbine,
Lily, violet, and rose
Plentiful in April fair,
To the air,
Their pretty petals do unclose.
Nightingales ye now may hear,
Piercing clear,
Singing in the deepest shade;
Many and many a babbled note
Chime and float,
Woodland music through the glade.
April, all to welcome thee,
Spring sets free
Ancient flames, and with low breath
Wakes the ashes grey and old
That the cold
Chilled within our hearts to death.
Thou beholdest in the warm
Hours, the swarm
Of the thievish bees, that flies
Evermore from bloom to bloom
For perfume,
Hid away in tiny thighs.
Her cool shadows May can boast,
Fruits almost
Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew,
Manna-sweet and honey-sweet,
That complete
Her flower garland fresh and new.
Nay, but I will give my praise,
To these days,
Named with the glad name of Her
That from out the foam o’ the sea
Came to be
Sudden light on earth and air.
poem by Remy Belleau
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Related quotes
April, Dear April
April, dear April, I beg you come soon –
And bring your sweet primroses too.
Let them join in with the daffodils’ play,
As skies offer sunshine anew.
April, dear April, my blessed spring child,
Ornate in your yellow and white,
Teasing the birds into trilling their songs
And dancing to music of flight.
April, dear April, come enter my dreams
And rid me from cold winter chills.
Banish the rain and those blustery winds
And warm up our countryside hills.
April, dear April, I know you can’t stay -
You have to move on ‘till next year.
And though I shall cherish the glory of summer,
You’ll always be my month most dear.
From: Succumbed to Thinking by Mark Raymond Slaughter, lulu.com
Copyright © Mark Raymond Slaughter 2009
All rights reserved
April April April April
April April April April
April April April April
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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April's Away.
All too soon the countryside,
Now fresh greened and sprouting more
Than spring, looks out for wider
Room, shakes it's newborn blossoms
Then ushers April to the door.
And April's away.
No longer teenage, Flora's
Grown maturer now, slightly
Deeper hued, flowers adorning
Every late spring bough, while
April, already pale, turns white,
Then April's away.
Heated by more ardent sun,
Hedgerows must have stronger feed.
Palid from work early done
April leaves, - makes way for May
To ensure Flora has her needs
Now April's away.
Averil
I love thee, April! for thou art the Spring
When Spring is Summer; and thy wayward showers,
Sudden and short, soothly do bring May flowers,
Thus making thee a harbinger, whose wing
Bright jewels, Nature's rarest choice, doth fling
O'er dewy-glistening brakes and banks and bowers,
To ravish loving eyes through longer hours
When Winter is a dead forgotten thing.
Such promise dost thou give of Summer bloom;--
But thine own sunshine hast thou, thine own light;
And fair are April flowers, April leaves--
Fairer to eyes aching from Winter's gloom
Than late-blown joys of May, that greet the sight
When drunk with gladness it from thee receives.
poem by Thomas MacDonagh
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April Rain
The April rain, the April rain,
Comes slanting down in fitful showers,
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
And in grey shaw and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again.
The April sun, the April sun,
Glints through the rain in fitful splendour,
And in grey shaw and woodland dun
The little leaves spring forth and tender
Their infant hands, yet weak and slender,
For warmth towards the April sun,
One after one.
And between shower and shine hath birth
The rainbow's evanescent glory;
Heaven's light that breaks on mists of earth!
Frail symbol of our human story,
It flowers through showers where, looming hoary,
The rain-clouds flash with April mirth,
Like Life on earth.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Spring On April Avenue
When you dont need me anymore
You realise how much you need me
But I just need you if you not need me
Like the spring on april avenue
Words are wounds
And flowers fly
The smell of dew
Spring on april avenue
The electrification
Every leafs pleasure
Every lightbulb waiting underground
Every child rising through life
Because machines are statues...
Spring on april avenue
Theres no symphony
Just a storm in every eye
Snow in their minds...frozen souls
Spring on april avenue.
Theres too much blinding light
Too many wells, and the walls are coming closer
Too many hearts beating our life
But the heart beat for death not life
Like the spring on april avenue
Divorced...forced from heaven and hell...
Air and the earth...Im...Im...
On april avenue.
poem by Not A Dream Choice
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Days of April
O, my days of April, I've pined for you so long
And waited to see your gardens return where they belong
O, my days of April, which find me with a fellow
Do you see my new smile outglowing daffodills yellow?
O, my days of April, you leave me sleepless in your splendor
You find me beneath the shaded trees in his arms tender
Marveling beneath the orange sunlight that covers the grassy hills
Feeling the blissful breeze travel where it wills
O, my days of April, his voice hums like your honey bees
It often sends my heart on happy little sprees
And as we swim through the land of lavender seas
I thank you for the days you bring such as these
O, my days of April, he smells like your fresh rain
That waters the mowed grass in the thirsty plains
His eyes shine like the diamonds you leave on the blades
I hold them to my memory to escape December days
O, my days of April, remember you'll live forevermore
Your cloudless days and golden rays always will knock at May's door
And your flowers will bloom so high they almost reach the gables
But remember us, remember us, my sweet days of April
poem by Whitney Albright
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When April Comes!
When April comes with softly shining eyes,
And daffodils bound in her wind-blown hair,
Oh, she will coax all clouds from out the skies,
And every day will bring some sweet surprise,--
The swallows will come swinging through the air
When April comes!
When April comes with tender smile and tear,
Dear dandelions will gild the common ways,
And at the break of morning we will hear
The piping of the robins crystal clear--
While bobolinks will whistle through the days,
When April comes!
When April comes, the world so wise and old,
Will half forget that it is worn and grey;
Winter will seem but as a tale long told--
Its bitter winds with all its frost and cold
Will be the by-gone things of yesterday,
When April comes!
poem by Virna Sheard
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The Birth of Spring (Constanza)
April graces us with showers,
As cold snows melt, their wintry scene
Is changed to many shades of green.
From tender shoots, soon, Spring flowers.
Apollo's face is golden fair....
The scent of spring is in the air.
As blossoms float down from bowers
When gusts of April breezes blow,
They spread below like golden snow.
I delight and watch for hours,
For truly at this time of year
I feel God's presence dwelling here.
Blessed and touched by divine powers.
The joy of springtime here on Earth
Is felt with every flower's birth.
April graces us with showers,
From tender shoots, soon, Spring flowers.
As blossoms float down from bowers
I delight and watch for hours,
Blessed and touched by divine powers.
poem by Connie Marcum Wong
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Young William And Young April
Young William and young April
Met in the park one day.
Young William said to April,
'Why did you come this way? '
Young April said to William,
'I thought I might see you.'
Young William, then to April,
'It's funny, what you do.'
Young April gave to William
A sweet, young childhood kiss.
Young William said to April,
'Don't bother me like this.'
Young April stood in silence,
Not knowing what to do.
Then young William turned away.
Young April, torn in two.
Young William said, 'Don't follow me.'
Away from her he fled.
April then, sat down and cried,
And wished that she was dead.
William never came again.
At least, for many years.
Fearful that young April still,
Might be there shedding tears.
William walked the park again.
It seemed just like before.
Wondering if he might see her.
Young April, there once more.
Young William never noticed.
The roses hid it well.
The place they found Young April.
The place she used to dwell.
poem by Greenwolfe 1962
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Always Marry An April Girl
Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true --
I love April, I love you.
poem by Ogden Nash
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Home Thoughts from Abroad
April in England–daffodils are growing
By every wayside, golden, tall and fair;
April–and all the little winds are blowing
The scents of springtime through the sunny air.
April in England–God, that we were there!
April in England–and her sons are lying
On these red fields, and dreaming of her shore;
April–we hear the thrushes' songs replying
Each unto each, above the cannons' roar;
April in England–shall we see it more?
April in England–there's the cuckoo calling
Down in her meadows where the cowslip gleams;
April–and little showers are softly falling,
Dimpling the surface of her babbling streams;
April in England–how the shrapnel screams!
April in England–blood and dust and smother,
Screaming of horses, men in agony.
April–full many of thy sons, O Mother,
Never again those dewy dawns shall see.
April in England–God, keep England free!
poem by Norah M. Holland
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An April Love
Nay, be not June, nor yet December, dear,
But April always, as I find thee now:
A constant freshness unto me be thou,
And not the ripeness that must soon be sere.
Why should I be Time's dupe, and wish more near
The sobering harvest of thy vernal vow?
I am content, so still across thy brow
Returning smile chase transitory tear.
Then scatter thy April heart in sunny showers;
I crave nor Summer drouth nor Winter sleet:
As Spring be fickle, so thou be as sweet;
With half-kept promise tantalise the hours;
And let Love's frolic hands and woodland feet
Fill high the lap of Life with wilding flowers.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Lillian
I. PROEM.
This was a sweet white wildwood violet
I found among the painted slips that grow
Where, under hot-house glass, the flowers forget
How the sun shines, and how the cool winds blow.
The violet took the orchid's colouring,
Tricked out its dainty fairness like the rest;
Yet still its breath was as the breath of Spring,
And the wood's heart was wild within its breast.
The orchid mostly is the flower I love,
And violets, the mere violets of the wood,
For all their sweetness, have not power to move
The curiosity that rules my blood.
Yet here, in this spice-laden atmosphere,
Where only nature is a thing unreal,
I found in just a violet, planted here,
The artificial flower of my ideal.
II. CHRISTMAS-EVE.
April-hearted Lilian,
April with our love began;
Winter comes, but April violets
Linger on.
So the fancy of an hour,
Born of sudden sun and shower,
Braves the winter, and has blossomed
Into flower.
poem by Arthur Symons
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Sweet Wild April
O sweet wild April
Came over the hills,
He skipped with the winds
And he tripped with the rills;
His raiment was all
Of the daffodils.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April
Came down the lea,
Dancing along
With his sisters three:
Carnation, and Rose,
And tall Lily.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April,
On pastoral quill
Came piping in moonlight
By hollow and hill,
In starlight at midnight,
By dingle and rill.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
Where sweet wild April
His melody played,
Trooped cowslip, and primrose,
And iris, the maid,
And silver narcissus,
A star in the shade.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
When sweet wild April
Dipped down the dale,
Pale cuckoopint brightened,
And windflower trail,
And white-thorn, the wood-bride,
In virginal veil.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
When sweet wild April
Through deep woods pressed,
Sang cuckoo above him,
And lark on his crest,
And Philomel fluttered
Close under his breast.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April,
Wherever you went
The bondage of winter
Was broken and rent,
Sank elfin ice-city
And frost-goblin's tent.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
Yet sweet wild April,
The blithe, the brave,
Fell asleep in the fields
By a windless wave
And Jack-in-the-Pulpit
Preached over his grave.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April,
Farewell to thee!
And a deep sweet sleep
To thy sisters three, -
Carnation, and Rose,
And tall Lily.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
poem by William Force Stead
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A Calendar of Sonnets: April
No days such honored days as these! While yet
Fair Aphrodite reigned, men seeking wide
For some fair thing which should forever bide
On earth, her beauteous memory to set
In fitting frame that no age could forget,
Her name in lovely April's name did hide,
And leave it there, eternally allied
To all the fairest flowers Spring did beget.
And when fair Aphrodite passed from earth,
Her shrines forgotten and her feasts of mirth,
A holier symbol still in seal and sign,
Sweet April took, of kingdom most divine,
When Christ ascended, in the time of birth
Of spring anemones, in Palestine.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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To an Early Daffodil
Thou yellow trumpeter of laggard Spring!
Thou herald of rich Summer's myriad flowers!
The climbing sun with new recovered powers
Does warm thee into being, through the ring
Of rich, brown earth he woos thee, makes thee fling
Thy green shoots up, inheriting the dowers
Of bending sky and sudden, sweeping showers,
Till ripe and blossoming thou art a thing
To make all nature glad, thou art so gay;
To fill the lonely with a joy untold;
Nodding at every gust of wind to-day,
To-morrow jewelled with raindrops. Always bold
To stand erect, full in the dazzling play
Of April's sun, for thou hast caught his gold.
poem by Amy Lowell
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The Shadows Fell
April was a lovely girl, her warmth was in her eyes
And she and I would walk within the calm of clear blue skies
Too short our time together, and what time consisted of
I knew her well, the shadows fell
See, April was my love...
A young man then, I knew the things a young man knows
But somehow lost it all with age, I guess that's how it goes
But April understood, and in time revealed to me
Reflection, my direction
And what April was to be...
She became to me the way to love's soothing caress
The answers to all questions, life and love, were met with yes
All that April showed to me, my heart still now believes
To take her place, her smiling face
April love, my heart still grieves...
Our time together had the look, forever on it's face
The hands of time stood still for us, in arm, and sweet embrace
It wasn't meant to be for us, nor I to have the sound
But she was singing, bells were ringing
As she felt the darkened ground...
Too soon my April left me, to some higher plane I'm sure
To wait for me to come someday, and reminisce with her
To tell me why each tear was lost, each April that I cried
As love turned to loss, inside the cross
When my April died...
Winter's breath blows hard upon her memory now
But I remember April, springtime love and lifetime vow
Sometimes I can feel her touch, and feel the gentle breeze
The days and nights, the wrongs the rights
There are many thoughts of these...
Many years ago now, April's love had held my heart
Too many days, and nights spent now without, but not apart
And I would trade my todays, for yesterday to be...
With April once again, and back to when
April was my love, you see.......
poem by Dino Evans
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April
April is eternal spring.
She sows the mirth for everything.
Her smiling sun and soothing showers
Create May’s ebullient flowers.
April assuages winter’s noose,
As snow and cold call annual truce.
Warmth and laughter then fill the air,
Replacing a somber season’s stare.
The year without April’s place,
Indeed would be a sterile space.
So thank you April for being here.
Your presence assures a happy year.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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April on the Battlefields
April now walks the fields again,
Trailing her tearful leaves
And holding all her frightened buds against her heart:
Wrapt in her clouds and mists,
She walks,
Groping her way among the graves of men.
The green of earth is differently green,
A dreadful knowledge trembles in the grass,
And little wide-eyed flowers die too soon:
There is a stillness here --
After a terror of all raving sounds --
And birds sit close for comfort upon the boughs
Of broken trees.
April, thou grief!
What of thy sun and glad, high wind,
Thy valiant hills and woods and eager brooks,
Thy thousand-petalled hopes?
The sky forbids thee sorrow, April!
And yet --
I see thee walking listlessly
Across those scars that once were joyous sod,
Those graves,
Those stepping-stones from life to life.
Death is an interruption between two heart-beats,
That I know --
Yet know not how I know --
But April mourns,
Trailing her tender green,
The passion of her green,
Across the passion of those fearful fields.
Yes, all the fields!
No barrier here,
No challenge in the night,
No stranger-land;
She passes with her perfect countersign,
Her green;
She wanders in her mournful garden,
Dropping her buds like tears,
Spreading her lovely grief upon the graves of man.
poem by Leonora Speyer
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April Again
April again! the willow wands are yellow
Rose-red the brambles that the passing wind knows,
Comes a robin's note like the note of a 'cello,
And across the valley, the calling of the crows,-
'April again!'
April again! and the marsh birds swinging
Over the rushes that belong to yester-year;
Silver shines the river, and young lips are singing
Songs as old as Eden-as old and as dear;
'April again!'
April again! with a wet wind blowing,
And along the western sky a pathway of gold;
Sounds a call to follow the road we're not knowing,
A new road-a wild road-o'er fairy lands unrolled,-
'April again!'
April again! with its wonder of gladness,
April with its haunting joy, and swift-stinging tears,-
Month of mist and music, and the old moon-madness,
Month of magic fluting, the spirit only hears,-
'April again!'
poem by Virna Sheard
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