April The Twenty-Sixth

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.

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