April.
By Jean Blewett
God's garden is this dim old wood,
And hidden in its bosom
The bursting bud, the feathery leaf
And soft, sweet smelling blossom.
Ho! May is fair, and glorious June,
In rose leaves doth enfold her;
Their bloom is richer than my own,
But mine is sweeter, bolder.
God's garden is this dim old wood,
And I, the pretty vagrant,
I am the gardener He sends
To make it fair and fragrant.