An April maiden is my love,
So full of moods is she,
I hardly know, to tell the truth,
Which mood most pleaseth me.
Her smiles are as bewildering
As April's sunniest day;
So tender, I am fain to wish
They ne'er might pass away.
But if my love doth charm me so
When she with mirth o'erflows,
How can I tell the wondrous spell
Her sadness o'er me throws?
Like violets bathed in morning dew
Her soft eyes seem to be;
And then I think she's dearer yet
Than e'er before to me.
All smiles and tears, my little love
Is like an April day;
For sunshine giveth place to clouds--
By sunshine chased away.
Ah, me! which mood doth please me best
I fear will ne'er be known;
But what care I, since in them all
Her heart is all my own!
