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April, pryde of all the yeareWhen appeare Leaves, and sap in fleecy budGently stirs with hope to yieldFruit fulfilled From the younglynges of the wood;

April, pryde of meadowe-sheeneGold and greene. She whose lavish whim doth shedHues and flowers a thousand-foldOn the moulde In her glory garmented;

April, pryde of wyndes that sigheLightly bye, In whose fannynge her slim threadUnder boughs a snare doth weaveTo bereave Flora of her maidenhead;

April, thy soft hande aloneSlips the zone Laying Nature's bosom bare,Stored with odours and with flowersThat in showers Sweeten all the earth and aire:

April, pryde and pomp of SpryngeFlourishynge On my Ladye's locks that meetO'er her browes and on her bosomBrimmed with blossom Thousand-fold and full of sweet;

April, on thy smilynge faceLove's own grace, Lure and rapture of sweet breath;April, scent of Gods enshrinedOn the wynde Sheddynge odour far beneath;

'Tis thy gentle summonyngeThat doth brynge Back again the truant swallowesThat in Winter fled afar, --They that are Heralds to the Sprynge that followes.

Thorny briar and thorny bougheBlossom nowe; Lilies, pinks, and roses red,That the sunny dayes do quickenThrong and thicken In their lovely robes outspread;

And the nightyngale doth sweetSongs repeat; In the shade he warbles long,Breaks the lilt and links agayn:The sweet chayne Of his never-endynge song.

Love, when thou art haply comeNo more numb, Breathes agayne with gentle breath,And awakes the smoulderynge fireOf desire That chill Winter smothereth.

In this weather fresh and sunnyBees mayke honey, Swarmynge all the sweets to sup;Each from flow'r to fiower dalliesDeep in chalice There to drink its odour up.

Maye perchance hath fresher wynde.Softer rind On her fruits, and dews that bearManna and the sweet that thryvesIn the hives Fostered by her gracious aire;

Yet my song I give to herThat doth bear Her faire name that founde her homeOn the wavy sea that broke,And awoke Into lyfe amid the foam.

© Thorley Wilfred Charles