Even so the quivering April thoughts will fly,—
Those irised darts,
Those winged and tiny denizens of the sky.
Through beaks as needle-fine,
They suck a redder honey than bees know.
Unearthly wine
Sleeps in this bloom; and, when it falls, they go.
Even so the quivering April thoughts will fly,—
Those irised darts,
Those winged and tiny denizens of the sky.
Through beaks as needle-fine,
They suck a redder honey than bees know.
Unearthly wine
Sleeps in this bloom; and, when it falls, they go.