io 4 ARBOR DAY 



or too late; the time is ripe, and, if you do not keep 

 pace with the rest, why, the fault is not in the season. 



APRIL 



BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



WHEN the warm sun, that brings 



Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 



'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 

 The first flower of the plain. 



I love the season well, 



When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 

 Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 



The coming-in of storms. 



From the earth's loosened mold 



The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives: 

 Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 



The drooping tree revives. 



The softly warbled song 



Comes through the pleasant woods, and colored 



wings 

 Are glancing in the golden sun, along 



The forest openings. 



And when bright sunset fills 



The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 

 Its shadow in the hollows of the hills, 



And wide the upland glows. 



