Come, for the leaf is alight on the bough,
Like a bird from the blue still aquiver from flight,
And but now was the day of the crocus, but now
With wind-flowers the mould of the woodland was white;
April’s here, Spring is here, hope is on the wing!

Come, for the primroses spangle the slope
By the stream that is red from the rush of the rains,
And the footstep in drifts of dead oak-leaves agrope
May bruise the anemone’s exquisite veins;
April’s here, hope is here, now’s the heart of Spring!

Part the dead pine-needles—lo, the live grass!
Mark, where the clouds break the burst of the blue—
Through the old brambles young ivy-shoots pass,
And after each shower the world’s born anew.
April’s here, Spring is here, hope is on the wing!
April’s here, hope is here, now’s the heart of Spring!