The April Shower. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

When rain-drops, glistening from the thatch,
Like drops of silver run,
Our old blind grandame lifts the latch,
To feel the cheering sun.

She sees no rainbow in the sky,
But when the cuckoo sung,
She thought upon the years gone by,
When she was blithe and young.

But God, who comforts want and age,
Shall be her only friend,
And bless her till her pilgrimage
In silent dust shall end.

William Lisle Bowles

William Lisle Bowles was an English cleric, poet, and critic who was born on 24th September 1762 and died on 7th April 1850. He is best known for his sonnets, which were highly praised by the Romantic poets. Bowles's work significantly influenced Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth. Besides his poetry, he wrote extensively on literary criticism and editing. Bowles spent much of his clerical career in Wiltshire and Gloucestershire.

William Lisle Bowles

Inscribed To The Rev. W. Howley.[1]

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

Fairy Sketch - Scene - Netley Abbey

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

Hour-Glass And Bible

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

Water-Party On Beaulieu River, In The New Forest

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Rainy Day In April

When the clouds shake their hyssops, and the rain
Like holy water falls upon the plain,
'Tis sweet to gaze upon the springing grain
And see your harvest born.

And sweet the little breeze of melody
The blackbird puffs upon the budding tree,
While the wild poppy lights upon the lea
And blazes 'mid the corn.

The skylark soars the freshening shower to hail,
And the meek daisy holds aloft her pail,
And Spring all radiant by the wayside pale
Sets up her rock and reel.

See how she weaves her mantle fold on fold,
Hemming the woods and carpeting the wold.
Her warp is of the green, her woof the gold,
The spinning world her wheel.

Francis Ledwidge

An April Day.

    When the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
    The first flower of the plain.

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

    From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
    The drooping tree revives.

    The softly-warbled song
Comes from the pleasant woods and coloured wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
    The forest openings.

    When the bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws
Its shadows in the hollows...

William Henry Giles Kingston

When April Comes!

When April comes with softly shining eyes,
And daffodils bound in her wind-blown hair,
Oh, she will coax all clouds from out the skies,
And every day will bring some sweet surprise, -
The swallows will come swinging through the air
When April comes!

When April comes with tender smile and tear,
Dear dandelions will gild the common ways,
And at the break of morning we will hear
The piping of the robins crystal clear -
While bobolinks will whistle through the days,
When April comes!

When April comes, the world so wise and old,
Will half forget that it is worn and grey;
Winter will seem but as a tale long told -
Its bitter winds with all its frost and cold
Will be the by-gone things of yesterday,
When April comes!

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Hymn Of The Convalescent.

My eyes have seen another spring
    In floral beauty rise,
And happy birds on gladsome wing
    Flit through the azure skies.
Though sickness bowed my feeble frame
    Through winter's cheerless hours,
Life's sinking torch resumes its flame
    With renovated powers.

Once more on nature's ample shrine,
    Beneath the spreading boughs,
With lifted hands and hopes divine
    I offer up my vows.
My incense is the breath of flowers,
    Perfuming all the air;
My pillared fane these woodland bowers,
    A heaven-built house of prayer;

My fellow-worshippers, the gay,
    Free songsters of the grove,
Who to the closing eye of day
    Warble their hymns of love.
The low and dulcet lyre of spring,
    Swept by the vagrant breeze,<...

Susanna Moodie

An April Day

        When the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
        The first flower of the plain.

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

        From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
        The drooping tree revives.

        The softly-warbled song
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
        The forest openings.

        When the bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, the green slope t...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

April

April! April! April!
With a mist of green on the trees -
And a scent of the warm brown broken earth
On every wandering breeze;
What, though thou be changeful,
Though thy gold turns to grey again,
There's a robin out yonder singing,
Singing in the rain.

April! April! April!
'Tis the Northland hath longed for thee,
She hath gazed toward the South with aching eyes
Full long and patiently.
Come now - tell us, sweeting,
Thou laggard so lovely and late,
Dost know there's no joy like the joy that comes
When hearts have learned to wait?

Virna Sheard