When the sloe tree is as white as a sheet,
Sow your barley, whether it be dry or wet.
As yet but single,
The bluebells with the grasses mingle;
But soon their azure will be scrolled
Upon the primrose cloth of gold.
A. Austin.
April, pride of murmuring winds of Spring,
That beneath the winnowed air,
Trap with subtle nets and sweet Flora's feet,
Flora's feet, the fleet and fair.
Belleau.