SMS FOOL KAHI KE

In the landscape of Spring there is neither
better or worse.
The flowering branches grow naturally,
some long, some short.

The first of April, some do say,
Is set apart for All Fools Day.
But why the people call it so,
Nor I, nor they themselves do know.
But on this day are people sent
On purpose for pure merriment.

Spring makes everything look filthy.

When the clouds shake their hyssops, and the rain
Like holy water falls upon the plain,
Tis sweet to gaze upon the springing grain
And see your harvest born.
And sweet the little breeze of melody
The blackbord puffs upon the budding tree,
While the wild poppy lights upon the lea
And blazes mid the corn.

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

Spring shows what God can do with a drab and dirty world.

I think that no matter how old or infirm I may become, I will always plant a large garden in the spring.
Who can resist the feelings of hope and joy that one gets from participating in natures rebirth?

The roofs are shining from the rain,
The sparrows twitter as they fly,
And with a windy April grace
The little clouds go by.
Yet the back yards are bare and brown
With only one unchanging tree--
I could not be so sure of Spring
Save that it sings in me.

If Spring came but once in a century, instead of once a year,
or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake,
and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would
be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change!
But now the silent succession suggests nothing but necessity.
To most men only the cessation of the miracle would be
miraculous and the perpetual exercise of Gods power
seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be.

When the April wind wakes the call for the soil, I hold the plough as my only hold upon the earth, and, as I follow through the fresh and fragrant furrow, I am planted with every foot-step, growing, budding, blooming into a spirit of spring.

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.

Now that the winters gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;
But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,
And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo and the humble-bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world the youthful spring.

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers:
Of April, May, or June, and July flowers.
I sing of Maypoles, Hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of the bridal cakes.

Sweet April showers
Do spring May flowers.

Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sellp-song on our roof at night--
And I love the rain.

When the time is ripe for certain things,
these things appear in different places in the manner
of violets coming to light in the early spring.

Keep your faith in all beautiful things;
in the sun when it is hidden,
in the Spring when it is gone.

The April rain, the April rain,
Comes slanting down in fitful showers,
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
And in grey shawl and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again.

O Day after day we cant help growing older.
Year after year spring cant help seeming younger.
Come lets enjoy our winecup today,
Nor pity the flowers fallen.

The first of April is the day we remember what we are the other 364 days of the year.