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Poem by Alfred Austin


An April Love


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. 



Alfred Austin


Alfred Austin's other poems:
  1. Nocturnal Vigils
  2. When Runnels Began to Leap and Sing
  3. The Wind Speaks
  4. Aspromonte
  5. To Robert Louis Stevenson


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