The brook has broken through its glass,
And where the snows were drifted
Round tangled blades of last year’ s grass,
The yellow sun is sifted.
Uncovered by the melting night
And warm, deceiving day-time,
The myrtle bed is green and bright
As in the midst of Maytime!
I almost fancy that I hear
The hum of bees in clover,
And from the maples, glad and clear,
The first red-robin lover.
A mock spring laughs in mocking skies,
( O little buds, be wary! )
And masking in sweet April’ s guise
The youthful year makes merry.