April - C. Auringer

Weary at heart with winter yesterday, I sought the fields for something green to see, Some budded turf or mossbank quietly Uncovered in the sweet familiar way. Crossing a pasture slope that sunward lay, I suddenly surprised beneath a tree A girlish creature who at sight of me Sprang up all wild with daintiest dismay. “Stay, pretty one!” I cried,—“who art thou, pray?” Mid tears and freaks of pettish misery, And sighing, “I am April,” answered she; “I rear the field flowers for my sister May.” Then with an arch laugh sidewise, clear and strong, Turned blithely up the valley with a song.