Oh, April!

Oh, April, April, April,
Sweet song-enchanted word!
When March went out at midnight
Each sleeping poet stirred —
From Hanover to Hatteras
Each poet on his mattress
Was whispering unheard:
Daffodil and thrill and spill ,
Hill, will, still , and window sill —
Darling poets, hark, oh, hark,
Softly rhyming in the dark!

When April comes, each poet
With secret glory glows —
Instinctively he knows it,
And to his art he owes it
No longer to inclose it
In mere mechanic prose:
The Muse, that has been truant,
Is suddenly more fluent
(As this impromptu shows).

Oh, April, April, April,
How sweet for either sex
When even minor poets
Are cashing minor checks.
In April, April, April,
Sing tree and free and sea —
But, ah, no April demiurge
Shall make a Fool of me!
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