Ah, what begetteth all this storm of bliss Stretch forth your open hands, and while ye live APRIL. FAIR midspring, besung so oft and oft, How can I praise thy loveliness enow? Thy sun that burns not, and thy breezes soft That o'er the blossoms of the orchard blow, The thousand things that 'neath the young leaves grow, The hopes and chances of the growing year, Winter forgotten long, and summer near. When Summer brings the lily and the rose, When in the earth the hopeful seed they lay. Ah! life of all the year, why yet do I Still long for that which never draweth nigh, WILLIAM MORRIS. B SPRING IS COMING. Y the bursting of the leaves, By the flowers that scent the air, All the woods and fields rejoice: Only here and there a voice- Won a new wild bitterness; Spring is coming. F. W. BOURDILLON, |