Across the fields and flowers, April
Longs to come. Her mien is shy, but
She believes in what She’s there to do.
I ask her, “Won’t you stay? I’d love
To see you dressed for evening
Well into the tunnel we call May.”
She gives me no reply.
For after all, the turgid March
Has still a battlefield to trudge
And we must slog along
In His wake