The First of April

By Mortimer Collins (1827–1876)

NOW, if to be an April-fool

Is to delight in the song of the thrush,

To long for the swallow in air’s blue hollow,

And the nightingale’s riotous music-gush,

And to paint a vision of cities Elysian

Out away in the sunset-flush—

Then I grasp my flagon and swear thereby,

We are April-fools, my Love and I.

And if to be an April-fool

Is to feel contempt for iron and gold,

For the shallow fame at which most men aim—

And to turn from worldlings cruel and cold

To God in His splendor, loving and tender,

And to bask in His presence manifold—

Then by all the stars in His infinite sky,

We are April-fools, my Love and I.