The Poets and Poetry of America/April

"A violet by a mossy stone, Half-hidden from the eye, Fair as a star, when only one  Is shining in the sky."

I have found violets. April hath come on, And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain Falls in the beaded drops of summer-time. You may hear birds at morning, and at eve The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls, Cooling upon the eaves, and drawing in His beautiful, bright neck; and, from the hills, A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea, Tells the release of waters, and the earth Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves Are lifted by the grass; and so I know That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring. Take of my violets! I found them where The liquid south stole o'er them, on a bank That lean'd to running water. There's to me A daintiness about these early flowers, That touches me like poetry. They blow With such a simple loveliness among The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts Whose beatings are too gentle for the world. I love to go in the capricious days Of April and hunt violets, when the rain Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod So gracefully to the kisses of the wind. It may be deem'd too idle, but the young Read nature like the manuscript of Heaven, And call the flowers its poetry. Go out! Ye spirits of habitual unrest, And read it, when the "fever of the world" Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life Hath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will be Like a beguiling music to its flow, And you will no more wonder that I love To hunt for violets in the April-time.