April this year not otherwise

Than April of a year ago

Is full of whispers full of sighs

Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;

Hepaticas that pleased you so

Are here again and butterflies.

There rings a hammering all day

And shingles lie about the doors;

In orchards near and far away

The grey woodpecker taps and bores;

And men are merry at their chores

And children earnest at their play.

The larger streams run still and deep

Noisy and swift the small brooks run

Among the mullein stalks the sheep

Go up the hillside in the sun

Pensively—only you are gone

You that alone I cared to keep.