Below its bells, while singing, soared from view,
The meadow-lark still mounts the heavenward ways.
I know thee, April! thine the azure mist,
Lifted and lowered, like a lady’s veil,
Before the rims of woodland sunshine kissed;
And thine the lated twilight’s golden sail,
When slanting lines of fire and amethyst,
Riot in withered field and sodden swale.
—Eliza Woodworth.