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APRIL.
APRIL.
HE strange, sweet days are here again, The happy-mournful days;
The songs which tremble on our lips
Are half complaint, half praise.
A sadness in the softened air,
And in the tenderer sky;
A touch of heartache everywhere:
We weep, yet know not why.
And in the tenderer sky;
A touch of heartache everywhere:
We weep, yet know not why.
The wind is full of memories;
It whispers low and clear
The sacred echoes of the past,
And brings the dead more near.
It whispers low and clear
The sacred echoes of the past,
And brings the dead more near.
The breath of budded hyacinths
Is heavy on the breeze;
The peach-tree twigs are strung with pink,
And murmurous with bees.
Is heavy on the breeze;
The peach-tree twigs are strung with pink,
And murmurous with bees.
