To April

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Title:     To April
Author: John Presland [More Titles by Presland]

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.




TO APRIL

II

There will be other days as fair as these
Which I shall never see; for other eyes
The lyric loveliness of cherry trees
Shall bloom milk-white against the windy skies
And I not praise them; where upon the stream
The faëry tracery of willows lies
I shall not see the sunlight's flying gleam,
Nor watch the swallows sudden dip and rise.

Most mutable the forms of beauty are,
Yet Beauty most eternal and unchanged,
Perfect for us, and for posterity
Still perfect; yearly is the pageant ranged.
And dare we wish that our poor dust should mar
The wonder of such immortality?

[The end]
John Presland's poem: To April

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