Again, with apologies to the Greatest of Geoffreys...
The drought of March has been pierced to the root
By April showers, and with floods, to boot.
The vines, now liquored, grow and spread their blooms
As cricket-chirping sounds in many rooms
And frogs croak under cloudy nighttime skies
That look upon the world with goggling eyes,
As with each breath the zephyrs push along
The waters and birds after rise in song
To eat the feast the waters leave behind,
In which the birds will all do but their kind,
As working folk to toil return again
For that which must be done--it has no end.
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