In the red April dawn,
In the wild April weather,
From brake and thicket and lawn
The birds sing all together.
The look of the hoyden Spring
Is pinched and shrewish and cold;
But all together they sing
Of a world that can never be old:
Of a world still young--still young!--
Whose last word won't be said,
Nor her last song dreamed and sung,
Till her last true lover's dead!