April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again. June, she'll change her tune,
In restless walks she'll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight. August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I'll remember
A love once new has now grown old.
