Classic Poem

The fresh, bright bloom of the daffodils
Makes gold in the garden bed,
Gold that is like the sunbeams
Loitering overhead.
Bloom, bloom
In the sun and the wind, —
April hath a fickle mind.

The budding twigs of the sweetbrier
Stir as with hope and bliss
Under the sun's soft glances,
Under the wind's sly kiss.
Swing, swing
In the sun and the wind, —
April hath a fickle mind.

May, she calls to her little ones,
Her flowers hiding away,
" Never put off till to-morrow
What you may do to-day.
Come, come
Through the sun and the wind, —
April hath a fickle mind. "