The lyric sound of laughter Fills all the April hills The joy-song of the crocus, The mirth of daffodils.

In the under-wood and the over-wood There is murmur and trill this day, For every bird is in lyric mood, And the wind will have its way.

Then the nun-like twilight came, violent vestured and still, And the night's first star outshone afar on the eve of Bunker Hill.

Her feet along the dewy hills Are lighter than blown thistledown; She bears the glamour of one star Upon her violet crown.

It is daffodil time, so the robins all cry, For the sun's a big daffodil up in the sky, And when down the midnight the owl call "to-whoo"! Why, then the round moon is a daffodil too; Now sheer to the bough-tops the sap starts to climb, So, merry my masters, it's daffodil time.

I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.