It is April, crying sore and weeping
O’er the chilly earth so brown and bare.
“When I went away,” she murmurs, sobbing,
“All my violet banks were starred with blue;
Who, O who has been here, basely robbing
Bloom and odor from the fragrant crew?”
Thus she plaineth. Then ten million voices
Tiny, murmurous, like drops of rain,
Raised in song as when the wind rejoices,
Ring the answer, “We are here again!”