april's art

High from the earth, I heard a bird.

He trod upon the trees

As he esteemed them trifles,

And then he spied a breeze,

And situated softly

Upon a pile of wind

Which in a perturbation

Nature had left behind.

A joyous-going fellow

I gathered from his talk,

Which both of benediction

And badinage partook.

Without apparent burden,

I learned, in leafy wood

He was the faithful father

Of a dependent brood;

And this untoward transport

His remedy for care -

A contrast to our respites.

How different we are!

Emily Dickinson