Down bright savannas, over the greening trees.
Hark, the first warbling in the bough soft-stirred!
And you, O Poet, with your wingèd word,
You come convoyed by these!
You come with all the buds and birds astart—
You with the heart of April in your heart.
So take our banded welcome as we drink
A health to you on April’s flowering brink—
To you come hither from that elder clime,
Where April has been wreathed in poet’s rhyme,