Here you will find thePoemAn April Loveof poet Alfred Austin
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.
