COME up, April, through the valley, 

In your robes of beauty drest, 

Come and wake your flowery children 

From their wintry beds of rest; 

Come and overblow them softly 

With the sweet breath of the south; 

Drop upon them, warm and loving, 

Tenderest kisses of your mouth. 

Touch them with your rosy fingers, 

Wake them with your pleasant tread, 

Push away the leaf-brown covers, 

Over all their faces spread; 

Tell them how the sun is waiting 

Longer daily in the skies, 

Looking for the bright uplifting 

Of their softly fringed eyes. 

Call the crowfoot and the crocus, 

Call the pale anemone, 

Call the violet and the daisy, 

Clothed with careful modesty; 

Seek the low and humble blossoms, 

Of their beauties unaware, 

Let the dandelion and fennel 

Show their shining yellow hair. 

Bid the little homely swallows 

Chirping, in the cold and rain, 

Their impatient sweet complaining, 

Sing out from their hearts again; 

Bid them set themselves to mating, 

Cooing love in softest words, 

Crowd their nests, all cold and empty, 

Full of little callow birds. 

Come up, April, through the valley, 

Where the fountain sleeps today, 

Let him, freed from icy fetters, 

Go rejoicing on his way; 

Through the flower-enameled meadows 

Let him run his laughing race, 

Making love to all the blossoms 

That o'erlean and kiss his face. 

But not birds and blossoms only, 

Not alone the streams complain, 

Men and maidens too are calling, 

Come up, April, come again! 

Waiting with the sweet impatience 

Of a lover for the hours 

They shall set the tender beauty 

Of thy feet among the flowers! 

—Phabe Cary.