April The Twenty-Sixth
A day when chimneys weep,
and town criers cry;
when the cost of ascending mountain paths is particularly steep,
and a rugby ball can but try.
A day when swallows swallow swiftly,
and a toad will natter to a Jack of all trades;
when a bright colour fades,
and beige is just the study of brown.
A day that begins and ends,
with bits in the middle,
hey diddle diddle don’t play upon that violin;
beguine the piece from where you left off,
and, ‘soft, what light through yonder window breaks – it is Juliet’,
and, soon, she is the Moon.