Sunshine turned into song.
To set us dreaming of summer,
When the days and the dreams are long.
Winged lute that we call a bluebird,
You blend in a silver strain
The sound of the laughing waters,
The patter of spring's sweet rain,
The voice of the wind, the sunshine,
And fragrance of blossoming things.
Ah! you are a poem of April,
That God endowed with wings.
Eben. E. Rexford.