In April

Again the woods are odorous, the lark
    Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray
    That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark,
    Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.

    After long rainy afternoons an hour
    Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings
    Them at the windows in a radiant shower,
    And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.

    Then all is still. The stones are crooned to sleep
    By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies;
    And cradled in the branches, hidden deep
    In each bright bud, a slumbering silence lies.

        Rainer Maria Rilke
        (tr. Jessie Lamont)