in Thoreau’s Journal:
April has begun like itself–– It is warm & showery—while I sail away with a light SW wind toward the Rock–– Sometimes the sun seems just ready to burst out-yet I know it will not–– The meadow is becoming bare It resounds with the sprayey notes of blackbirds — The birds sing this warm and showery day after a fortnight’s cold (yesterday was wet too) with a universal burst & flood of melody.