AN APRIL GUST.

It shall be as it hath been. All the world is glad and green— Hush! Ah, hush! There cannot be April now for you and me.

Put your finger on the lips Of your soul; the wild rain drips; The wind goes diving down the sea; Tell the wind, but tell not me.

Yet if I had aught to tell, High as heaven, or deep as hell, Bent the fates awry or fit, I would find a word for it.

Oh, words that neither sea nor land Can lift their ears to understand! Wild words, as dumb as death or fear, I dare to die, but not to hear!