I
'Tis not alone the loveliness of spring
That makes spring lovely; there's a sense behind
Of wonders, deeper than the eye can find
In daffodils, or swallows on the wing;
A subtler pleasure than the sense can bind
When on the dusty roads the rain-drops sing
As March turns April, and the hours bring
Songs to deaf ears, and beauty to the blind.
April is secret nature's treasure room,
Which she unlocks to us who love her well
In magic moments; then indeed we see
The wonder of all spring-times, from the gloom
Of world-beginnings, long ere Adam fell—
And all the beauty of all springs to be.