April, April

God, by the earlier sceptic, was exiled; The later is more lenient grown and mild: He sanctions God, provided you agree To any other name for deity.

Flower-fondled, clasp'd in ivy's close caress, It seems with Nature, yet apart.

Man looks at his own bliss, considers it, Weighs it with curious fingers; and 'tis gone.

The Poet gathers fruit from every tree, Yea, grapes from thorns and figs from thistles he. Pluck'd by his hand, the basest weed that grows Towers to a lily, reddens to a rose.

And, though circuitous and obscure, The feet of Nemesis how sure!

To keep in sight Perfection, and adore The vision, is the artist's best delight; His bitterest pang, that he can ne'er do more Than keep her long'd-for loveliness in sight.