After the snows their fleecy covers

Lift from the ground, Thy prostrate stems the year discovers

When buds abound.

With lips grown warm at their own pressure,

Fair April hies To leave first kisses on my treasure,

His boyish prize;

As waiting lips are forced asunder

In loving much, Thy petals open with glad wonder

At April's touch.

Where, in thine own New England twining,

O! flower of mine, I hold thy clusters fast, consigning

My face to thine.

Past Aprils come in cruel fashion

Through empty years,

Thy scented blossom breathes a passion

That brings the tears. - A. R. Grotet in the Globe.