When April winds arrive br And the soft rains are here, br Some morning by the roadside br These gipsy folk appear. br We never see their coming, br However sharp our eyes; br Each year as if by magic br They take us by surprise. br Along the ragged woodside br And by the green spring-run, br Their small white heads are nodding br And twinkling in the sun. br They crowd across the meadow br In innocence and mirth, br As if there were no sorrow br In all the lovely earth. br So frail, so unregarded,— br And yet about them clings br That exquisite perfection, br The soul of common things! br Think you the springing pastures br Their starry vigil kept, br To hear along the midnight br Some message, while we slept? br How else should spring requicken br Such glory in the sod? br I guess that trail of beauty br Is where the angel trod.