Look, here the violets shy abide
And there the mating robins hide-
How keen my sense, how acute,
When April's here!
And list! down where the shimmering tide
Hard by that farthest hill doth glide,
Rise faint strains from shepherd's flute,
Pan's pipes and Berecyntian lute.
Each sight, each sound fresh joys provide
When April's here.