How deep the April night is in its noon,
    The hopeful, solemn, many-murmured night!
    The earth lies hushed with expectation; bright
    Above the world's dark border burns the moon,
    Yellow and large; from forest floorways, strewn
    With flowers, and fields that tingle with new birth,
    The moist smell of the unimprisoned earth
    Comes up, a sigh, a haunting promise. Soon,
    Ah, soon, the teeming triumph! At my feet
    The river with its stately sweep and wheel
    Moves on slow-motioned, luminous, grey like steel.
    From fields far off whose watery hollows gleam,
    Aye with blown throats that make the long hours sweet,
    The sleepless toads are murmuring in their dream.

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