The very thought of it moves me here —
The thought of April coming again
To our Mother St. John. Excuse this pen;
And the blot there looks like a tear.

How you will stand in the snow and note
The first faint odour of willows in bud —
The Indian-willow will flush with blood
And the robin will clear his throat.

The ice will swing at the brink, and flow
Seaward — a hundred miles let it travel.
The battered logs will hang on the gravel —
The islands will strain to go.

The geese will return to your hills — and the loon;
You will find them all, some day, when you wake,
Trying the depths of a woodland lake
Or feeding in some lagoon.

A week will pass like a breath, and then
Up and along the creeks I know
The pussy-willows will scent and blow —
The catkins will thrill again.

Then you will slip from the bank and drift
In your slim canoe, and her gunwale's gleam
Will come to me in a happy dream;
And your paddle will dip and lift

And speed her along, and through it all
The red-bud maples will burst and lean —
The swollen waters will snarl between —
Then I will awake, and call

And find that the valour of April and sun
On our Mother St. John and the Nashwaak there
Is not for me — so I 'll snuff the air
And dream how the thing is done.