THE APRIL MOMENT 



settes appear with serene impartiality on 

 guarded lawn and mountain pasture, where 

 steal also the polite but persistent "pussy 

 tiptoes," asserting the right to display 

 white leaves in spring, if so a plant should 

 choose. The snail has deserted his shell 

 and gone forth to take the air at the risk 

 of being plowed under. None of April's 

 children remember or foresee. The vivid 

 present is enough. 



The apple boughs are inlaid with coral. 

 The peach is a cloud of dawn, and petals 

 of the forward cherry and pear are floating 

 reluctantly down. Wild-fruit trees, mys- 

 teriously planted, are misty white above 

 the woodland thicket scented crabapple 

 and twisted branch of plum. This is the 

 month of blossoms, as May is the month 

 of shimmering leaves and June of the 

 fruitless flower. 



The blackbird swings at the foamy crest 

 of the haw, disturbed by a thousand de- 

 lights, and notes too few to tell them. 

 The crow hoarsely mentions his rapture 

 as he flaps above the moving harrow, and 

 the new lambs look on in a tremulous, 

 wounded manner while the famished wood- 

 chuck makes away with the cloverheads, 



[21] 



