[Boston Traveller.]
Outdoors the white rain coming down
Made rivers of the streets in town,
And where the snow in patches lay
It washed the Winter's signs away.
How fast it fell! How warm it fell!
The icicles began to melt;
A silver needle seemed each one,
Thrust in the furnace of the sun,—
The Vulcan sun, who forged them all
In raindrop-crystals, round and small.
The air was filled with tiny ropes,
On which were strung these April hopes,—
White water-beads that searched the ground,
Until the thirsty seeds were found.
Then came blue sky; the streets were clean;
And, in the garden, spots of green
Were glistening in golden light,
The grass and Spring almost in sight!
A bluebird sang its song near-by;
"Oh! happy Spring is come," thought I;
When all at once the air grew chill.
Again the snowflakes fell, until
The ground was covered, and the trees
Stood in the drifts up to their knees.
I think this bird, who dared to sing,
Was premature about the Spring;
Or else he joked in manner cool,
And caroled lightly, April Fool.
