APRIL VOICES.

HE birches of your London square
“ Have leafed into an emerald haze”?
Then come — you promised ; come and share
The fuller spring of our last April days.
The ash, who wastes whole golden weeks in
doubt,
The very ash is long since out ;
The apple-boughs are muffled—do but
think ! —
With crowded bloom of maid’s blush, white
and pink ;
The whins are all ablaze !

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