Come up, April, though the valley, / In your robes of beauty drest, / Come and wake your flowery children / From their wintry beds of rest.

And never since harvests were ripened, / Or laborers born, / Have men gathered figs of the thistle, / Or grapes of the thorn!

For of all hard things to bear and grin, / The hardest is knowing you're taken in.

And though hard be the task, keep a stiff upper lip.

Only yield when you must, never "give up the ship," but fight on to the last "with a stiff upper lip!

Come up, April, though the valley, / In your robes of beauty drest, / Come and wake your flowery children / From their wintry beds of rest.

One sweetly solemn thought, comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home today, than I ever have been before.