Rd would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn. Of April another poet sings: April, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then the moment after Weep thy girlish tears! April, that mine ears Like a lover greetest, If I tell thee, sweetest, All my hopes and fears. April, April, Laugh thy golden laughter. But the moment after Weep thy golden tears! This Autumn, this April,--are they nothing but phantasy? Let us suppose that the Man from the Moon comes to the earth and lis