SAVOR of love is thick on the April air, <br />The blunted boughs dispose their lacy bloom, <br />And many sorry steeds dismissed to pasture <br />Toss their old forelocks, flourish heavy heels. <br />Where is there any unpersuaded poet <br />So angry still against the wrongs of winter <br />Which caused the dainty earth to droop and die, <br />So vengeant for his vine and summer song, <br />As to decline the good releasing thaw? <br />Poets have temperature and follow seasons, <br />And covenants go out at equinox. <br /> <br /> <br />The champions! For Heaven, riding high <br />Above the icy death, considered truly; <br />'My agate icy work, I thought it fair; <br />Yet I have lacked that pretty lift of praise <br />That mounted once from these emaciate minstrels. <br />They will not sing, and duty drops away <br />And I must turn and make a soft amend!' <br />At once he showered April down, until <br />The bleak twigs bloom again; and soon, I swear, <br />He shall receive his praise.<br /><br />John Crowe Ransom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/april-38/
