'Twas an April day, in the balmy spring,
The farmhouse fires had gone to sleep,
The windows were open to sun and breeze,
The hills were dotted with snowy sheep.

The great elms rustled their new-lifed leaves
Softly over the old brown roof,
And the sunshine, red with savory smoke,
Fell graciously through their emerald woof.

Sounds--spring sounds--which the country yields:
Voices of laborers, lowing of herds,
The caw of the crow, the swollen brook's roar,
The sportsman's gun, and the twitter of birds,

Melted like dim dreams into the air;
'Twas the azure shadow of summer,
Which fell so sweetly on plain and wood,
And brought new gladness to eye and ear.

But a face looks out to the purple hills,
A wasted face that is full of woe,
Wan yet calm, like a summer moon
That has lost the round of its fullest glow.

The smooth brown braids still wreathe her head;
Her simple garments are full of grace,
As if, with color and taste, she fain
Would ward off eyes from her paling face.