Bliss Carman
Once more in misted April
The world is growing green.
Along the winding river
The plumey willows lean.
Beyond the sweeping
meadows
The looming mountains rise,
Like battlements of
dreamland
Against the brooding skies.
In every wooded valley
The buds are breaking
through,
As though the heart of all
things
No languor ever knew.
The golden-wings and
bluebirds
Call to their heavenly choirs.
The pines are blued and
drifted
With smoke of brushwood
fires.
And in my sister's garden
Where little breezes run,
The golden daffodillies
Are blowing in the sun.