By April’s end there is no doubt of the season. Early or late, it is definitely spring, and no matter how dogged have been the frosts back in the hills, no matter how deliberate have been the early flowers, May is at hand and the grass is green and the buds are opening, leaf and petal. Robins sing, daylight lingers, and the world gets on with its vernal business.
(...)
So we come to the end of April, even a chilly April, with birdsong around us and some of spring’s color; and we feel the strengthening sun, we sense the opening buds, we know again that no winter lasts forever, no spring skips its turn. April is a promise that May is bound to keep, and we know it.