April Desiring Aphrodite

Long days has April wept December's death, 
And now the folded ferns await thy breath, 
Mother: and not a lark its service saith. 

Whether thou dwellest in the hollow seas, 
Or where the shepherds pipe upon the leas 
Of Arcady, beneath the apple-trees, 

We know not, Mother: who are we to know? 
But we have seen the snowdrops in the snow, 
And fain would see again the lilac blow. 

Rise up: and leave the myrtle groves forlorn: 
Shut fast the Ivory Doors, the Gate of Horn 
Set wide, and let the faithful dreams be borne 

To all the grieved sleepers: late indeed 
Thou comest to put life in soil and seed, 
Yet come to us who of thy life have need. 

What of the night gone by and overpast? 
The winter of our discontent at last 
Goes driving by like sleet upon the blast. 

On some black bough an ousel tries his note, 
And a far lark sends from his golden throat 
A cry of joy, most tender and remote. 

A crocus on my lawn prinks out in gold. 
And green leaves peep, half shrinking from the cold, 
Where roses were and lilies grew of old. 

Come: for the eggs are quickening in the nest, 
And love is kindling in the maiden breast: 
Come: we will give thee of our loveliest. 

We will give milk and doves and honey-wine, 
And folded buds of may and columbine: 
Come, Aphrodite, to this world of thine!