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Alfred Austin - An April Love
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Nay, be not June, nor yet December, dear,
 But April always, as I find thee now:
 A constant freshness unto me be thou,
 And not the ripeness that must soon be sere.
 Why should I be Time`s dupe, and wish more near
 The sobering harvest of thy vernal vow?
 I am content, so still across thy brow
 Returning smile chase transitory tear.
 Then scatter thy April heart in sunny showers;
 I crave nor Summer drouth nor Winter sleet:
 As Spring be fickle, so thou be as sweet;
 With half—kept promise tantalise the hours;
 And let Love`s frolic hands and woodland feet
 Fill high the lap of Life with wilding flowers.
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