Make me over, mother April,
When the sap begins to stir!
When thy flowery hand delivers
All the mountain-prisoned rivers,
And thy great heart beats and quivers
To revive the days that were,
Make me over, mother April,
When the sap begins to...
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To R. H. A crimson touch on the hard-wood trees; |
The Swarthy bee is a buccaneer, A waif of the goblin pirate crew, |
Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old, Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, |
Hack and Hew were the sons of God And Hack was blind, and Hew was dumb, |