An April Love

Nay, be not June, nor yet December, dear, 
But April always, as I find thee now: 
A constant freshness unto me be thou, 
And not the ripeness that must soon be sere. 
Why should I be Time's dupe, and wish more near 
The sobering harvest of thy vernal vow? 
I am content, so still across thy brow 
Returning smile chase transitory tear. 
Then scatter thy April heart in sunny showers; 
I crave nor Summer drouth nor Winter sleet: 
As Spring be fickle, so thou be as sweet; 
With half-kept promise tantalise the hours; 
And let Love's frolic hands and woodland feet 
Fill high the lap of Life with wilding flowers.