There fell an April shower, one night:

      Next morning, in the garden-bed,

      The crocuses stood straight and gold:

      "And they have come," the children said.

      There fell an April shower, one night:

      Next morning, thro' the woodland spread

      The Mayflowers, pink and sweet as youth:

      "And they are come," the children said.

      There fell an April shower, one night:

      Next morning, sweetly, overhead,

      The blue-birds sung, the blue-birds sung:

      "And they have come," the children said.

      I come, I come! ye have called me long;

      I come o'er the mountains, with light and song;

      Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth

      By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,

      By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,

      By the green leaves opening as I pass.

      I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers

      By thousands have burst from the forest bowers,

      And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes

      Are veiled with wreaths as Italian plains;

      But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,

      To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

      I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North,

      And the larch has hung all his tassels forth;

      The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

      And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,

      And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

      And the moss looks bright, where my step has been.

      I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,

      And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,

      From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,

      In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,

      To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,

      When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

      From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;

      They are sweeping on to the silvery main,

      They are flashing down from the mountain brows,

      They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,

      They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,

      And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

      Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?

      If there has take him out, without making a noise.

      Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite!

      Old Time is a liar! We're twenty tonight!

      We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?

      He's tipsy—young jackanapes!—show him the door!

      "Gray temples at twenty?"—Yes! white if we please;

      Where the snowflakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!

      Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!

      Look close—you will see not a sign of a flake!

      We want some new garlands for those we have shed,

      And these are white roses in place of the red.

      We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told.

      Of talking (in public) as if we were old;

      That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge";

      It's a neat little fiction—of course it's all fudge.

      That fellow's the "Speaker"—the one on the right;

      "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?

      That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff;

      There's the "Reverend" What's-his-name?—don't make me laugh.

      That boy with the grave mathematical look

      Made believe he had written a wonderful book,

      And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true!

      So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too!

      There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,

      That could harness a team with a logical chain;

      When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,

      We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."

      And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith:

      Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;

      But he shouted a song for the brave and the free—

      Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"

      You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun;

      But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done.

      The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,

      And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!

      Yes, we're boys—always playing with tongue or with pen;

      And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men?

      Shall we always be youthful and laughing and gay,

      Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

      Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!

      The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!

      And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,

      Dear Father, take care of Thy children, THE BOYS!

      The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

      It rains, and the wind is never weary;

      The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

      But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

      And the day is dark and dreary.

      My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;

      It