Robes of bright blue around her form are swaying,
And in her bosom dewy violets lie;
While the warm sun rays on her girdle playing,
Give it the rainbow’s soft and varied dye.
Over the meadow where the grass is growing,
She sprinkles early flowers of every hue;
Weeping, she strews them, and the bright tears flowing,
Bathe every leaflet with a shining dew.
With stately step, and crowned with crimson roses
She comes; and sighing, April bows her head;
Then May the white lids on the sweet eyes closes,
And lays fair April with her flowers--dead.
_Jacksonville, Ill._