Song of a Second April

April this year, not otherwise / Than April of a year ago,

Is full of whispers, full of sighs, / Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;

/ Hepaticas that pleased you so

Are here again, and butterflies.

There rings a hammering all day, / And shingles lie about the doors;

In orchards near and far away / The grey wood-pecker taps and bores;

/ And men are merry at their chores,

And children earnest at their play.

The larger streams run still and deep, / Noisy and swift the small brooks run;

Among the mullein stalks the sheep / Go up the hillside in the sun, / Pensively,-only you are gone,

You that alone I cared to keep.