April. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

 An altered look about the hills;
    A Tyrian light the village fills;
    A wider sunrise in the dawn;
    A deeper twilight on the lawn;
    A print of a vermilion foot;
    A purple finger on the slope;
    A flippant fly upon the pane;
    A spider at his trade again;
    An added strut in chanticleer;
    A flower expected everywhere;
    An axe shrill singing in the woods;
    Fern-odors on untravelled roads, —
    All this, and more I cannot tell,
    A furtive look you know as well,
    And Nicodemus’ mystery
    Receives its annual reply.