A-bout Monday third of April,
N-o more sad Sunday night;
G-et up from the bed,
E-arly dawn's lovely
L-ight.
E-vening shadows disappear,
C-old chill leaves the horizon;
H-aze, mist, and fog
A-re brought to oblivion.
N-ew morn meets the beacon,
E-ndorsing a thousand thrill;
Z-enith and sky both talk about Monday third of April.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem