Thomas MacDonagh (Томас Макдона)
Averil
I love thee, April! for thou art the Spring When Spring is Summer; and thy wayward showers, Sudden and short, soothly do bring May flowers, Thus making thee a harbinger, whose wing Bright jewels, Nature's rarest choice, doth fling O'er dewy-glistening brakes and banks and bowers, To ravish loving eyes through longer hours When Winter is a dead forgotten thing. Such promise dost thou give of Summer bloom;-- But thine own sunshine hast thou, thine own light; And fair are April flowers, April leaves-- Fairer to eyes aching from Winter's gloom Than late-blown joys of May, that greet the sight When drunk with gladness it from thee receives.
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