Showery Time

The April rain-drops tinkle In cuckoo-cups of gold, And warm south winds unwrinkle The buds the peach-boughs hold.

In countless fluted creases The little elm-leaves show, While white as carded fleeces The dogwood blossoms blow.

A rosy robe is wrapping The early red-bud trees; But still the haws are napping, Nor heed the honey-bees.

And still in lazy sleeping The apple-buds are bound, But tulip-tips are peeping From out the garden ground.

And yonder, gayly swinging Upon the turning vane, A robin redbreast singing Makes merry at the rain!