For works with similar titles, see April.
4385922Poems — AprilElizabeth Chase Allen
THE strange, sweet days are here again,
The happy-mournful days;
The songs which tremble on our lips
Are half complaint, half praise.

A sadness in the softened air,
And in the tenderer sky;
A touch of heartache everywhere:
We weep, yet know not why.

The wind is full of memories;
It whispers low and clear
The sacred echoes of the past,
And brings the dead more near.

The breath of budded hyacinths
Is heavy on the breeze;
The peach-tree twigs are strung with pink,
And murmurous with bees.

Swing, robin, on the budded sprays,
And sing your blithest tune;—
Help us across these homesick days
Into the joy of June!