Athwart the misty window, his first song.
—WILLIAM STRUTHERS.
The April morn
Climbs softly up the eastern sky,
And glimmers through the milk-white thorn,
Or dances where the violets lie.
—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
April violets glow
In wayside nooks, close clustering into groups,
Like shy elves hiding from the traveler’s eye.