Poetry Sunday: An April Day by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow describes an April Day; a day "When the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again," and "'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain." The day as he describes it seems just about perfect to me.

An April Day
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well,
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-on of storms.

From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,
And wide the upland glows.

And when the eve is born,
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,
Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn,
And twinkles many a star.

Inverted in the tide
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,
And the fair trees look over, side by side,
And see themselves below.

Sweet April! many a thought
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,
Life's golden fruit is shed.


  1. I think I would have really enjoyed a spring walk through northern woods with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

    1. It would likely have been full of lyrical observations.

  2. I, too, would have loved to have walked in the woods with Longfellow as my guide. Not today, though. The sun is deceptive; it's breezy and in the low 40's. But everything is greening up in the sun. Maybe I'll take that walk, after all.

    1. The weather has still been a bit iffy even here. The season can't quite seem to make up its mind.

  3. I love the season, well, too! Great poem. :D


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