Angel's Twenty

I love respiring April sky,
The most spirited of the year,
Where all the finest cloud forms fly
Past every budding sonneteer...
As if the planet herself writes
In all liberal fonts of love,
Embellishing birds in all their flights,
From nightingale to mourning dove.
And though witnessed annually
It never fails to inspire...
More than things done manually
Down on our chattel shire,
Where freedom measures by the yard
Of droppings all those birds discard!