The brook has broken through its glass,
And where the snows were drifted
Round tangled blades of last year’s grass,
The yellow sun is sifted.
Uncovered by the melting night
And warm, deceiving day-time,
The myrtle bed is green and bright
As in the midst of Maytime!
I almost fancy that I hear
The hum of bees in clover,
And from the maples, glad and clear,
The first red-robin lover.
A mock spring laughs in mocking skies,
(O little buds, be wary!)
And masking in sweet April’s guise
The youthful year makes merry.