Who hears the music of the blue-bird’s song,
And sees not straightway cloudy skies grow fair
With softened light pale April kindleth there?
Who heareth not the swollen, rippling throng
Of loosened streams that trip the roads beside,
That wear soft channels in the meadow grass,
And peaceful grow to uphold the crisp-leaved cress?
Who sees not o’er the marsh-pools, dark and wide,
Rise tasselled willow and the later glow
Of sturdy marigolds’ broad, golden bloom,