if love's the gaze of stone and hate
       the water drifting hands to their
   undreams of dreams, then it shall be
     with the zither of leaves a quartet of wind
        sifts inanimately so as dark as the night
    they will not dare speak the ineffable.

  if love's touch homing back to cities as
     spry as an unwound, delicate moon as
        can be, these flowerings drone
           exactitudes the rambunctious plunge
    of the roots to the Earth

                  and i will sing these delightful bursts called    days in 
    April have not the touch of frolicking birds
  and the quibble  of the masses half-opening
        and ultimately quivering are the mountains and the fish dance in the tumult
      of their aqueous variations

       it    is   April,  sing gently, as now all the
    leaves have fingers and  the ferruginous  rivers    have   feet   and   my love
            a   flower at   last!