APRIL.
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis April weather;
A voice like Spring is calling: Let us go
Where violets are blooming on the heather,
And song-birds bend the branches to and fro;
For everywhere the very ground is springing,
And everywhere the grass is getting green—
How can I now—how can I keep from singing
When all the world is like a fairy scene!
The buds in all the trees, are ripe for bursting,
And fleecy catkins flutter everywhere,
And every little flower seems a-thirsting
For something sweet and beautiful and fair.
But look!—to Westward—see!—an April shower
Sudden has gathered, darkening the sun,
Yet wait!—beside me lifts a gentle flower,
That lights my pathway, blossoming alone;
And hark!—O hark, the meadow-lark is singing,
Greeting the storm from yon tall maple tree,
While, like a herald in its homeward winging,
Wheels a lone flicker o'er the darkening lea.
MAY
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis merry May-time;
The little lambs are gamboling on the green,—
Nature is glad—it is her hour of playtime,
And now, or never, her true heart is seen;
The butterflies are floating down from heaven,
And humming-birds again are on the wing,—
And the kind swallows, seventy times seven,
Fill all the air with merry murmuring.
And see the lilacs by yon cottage blooming!—
How sweet the air is!—sweetness everywhere,
For look!—rich apple-blossoms are perfuming
This little lane that leads to woodlands fair,—
Here honeysuckle-bells are softly swinging,
And pink azaleas perfume all the wood,
And, in the trees, the vireos are singing
Incessantly their songs of solitude,
While round the hill, as slow our steps are wending,
We hear a sweet Voice calling,—"Come, O come!"
For see!—the sun is in the West decending,
And happy hearts are waiting us at home.
JUNE
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis June,—fair June-day,
And Nature smiles—her magic hands are still,
For not a ripple stirs yon lake at noon-day,
And not a breeze disturbs this woody hill;
But hark!—what idle dreamer there is drumming?
It is—it is a pheasant calling—"Come!"
And listen!—like a low voice sweetly humming
Is heard the brook within its forest home.
But wait!—We cannot wait—'Twill soon be Summer,
So let us now enjoy these days of June,
For hear ye not that late, but welcome comer,
Robert-of-Lincoln carroling his tune;
And see ye not yon oriole high swinging
His basket from that tall and leafy tree—
O Comrade, Comrade!—Time is swiftly winging,—
'Twill not be always June with you and me;
Spring-time is passing—Summer is a-coming,
And soon fair Autumn with her idle dreams,
And then cold Winter, her White hands benumbing
The icy lakes and silent, woodland streams!
O Comrade!—Comrade!—let us not be weary,
But pick life's pretty blossoms while they bloom,
Forgetting every prospect, sad or dreary,
Avoiding every lane that leads to gloom!
For see!—each flower lifts a golden chalice
Inviting us to drink—Shall we pass by,
With faces sad, nor enter this fair palace
That June has rear'd us 'neath a cloudless sky?