All the golden air is full of balm and bloom
⁠Where the hawthorns line the shelving dyke with flowers.
⁠Joyous children born of April's happiest hours,
High and low they laugh and lighten, knowing their doom
Bright as brief—to bless and cheer they know not whom,
⁠Heed not how, but washed and warmed with suns and showers
⁠Smile, and bid the sweet soft gradual banks and bowers
Thrill with love of sunlit fire or starry gloom.