OH, NOT WHEN APRIL WAKES THE DAFFODILS.
OH, not when April wakes the daffodils,
And bob-o-links o'er misty meadows ring
Their fluted bells, and orchards fleeced with Spring,
Go climbing up to crown the radiant hills;
Not when the budding balm-o'-gilead spills
Its spices on the air, and lilacs bring
Old dreams to mind, and every living thing
The brimming cup with fresh enchantment fills.
Oh, bring not then the dread report of death,—
Of eyes to loveliness forever sealed,
Of youth that perished as a passing breath,
Of hearts laid waste and agonies untold,
When here in every sweet Canadian field
Are heaped such treasuries of green and gold!
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