April in England. Daffodils are growing

By every wayside, golden, tall and fair;

April -- and all the little winds are blowing

The scents of springtime through the sunny air.

April in England. God, that we were there.

April in England. And her sons are lying

On these red fields and dreaming of her shore;

April -- we hear the thrushes' songs replying

Each unto each, above the cannons' roar.

April in England. Shall we see it more?

April in England. There's the cuckoo calling

Down in her meadows, where the cowslip gleams,

April -- and little showers are softly falling,

Dimpling the surface of her babbling streams.

April in England. How the shrapnel screams.

April in England. Blood and dust and smother,

Screaming of horses, men in agony,

April -- full many of thy sons, O Mother,

Never again those dewy dawns shall see

April in England. God keep England free.