Early April
To a bird's high-piped preamble,
Hark! a glory through the Park,
Through the saplings and the bramble
Sparkling over the dripping bark,
Sunlight fell, golden-hued,
Fall'n without a warning,
Kissing the caverns of the wood
On an April morning.
Robin, Robin Redbreast
Danced upon the turf,
In the lake the ripple's crest
Mimic'd Ocean's surf.
And the branches splattered the dew
Over the lush, wet ground —
Dawn only lacked of you
To have its glory crowned.
In the ample stretch of heaven
There was not a fleck, a streamer,
All the perfect air was given,
Delicious food, to me, the dreamer;
Loaf, laze and idle
The delicate dawn away,
With thoughts of the bridal
On a rare June day.
I sat all alone,
Squirrels tufted their tails,
And silver fancies, shower-strown,
I beat, as with a flail,
Shaping them now to the fluty
Lyric of a bird.
Now to the rose-bud beauty
Of a golden word.
Oh, what is a pleasure
If It is not shared?
What the sweetest leisure
When a heart's unpaired?
It is as if a ring
Lacked its perfect stone —
On that dancing morning of Spring
I sat there alone.
~~
James Oppenheim (1882-1932)
from Monday Morning, and other poems, 1909
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
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