APRIL

    April!  April!  April! 
  With a mist of green on the trees—­
And a scent of the warm brown broken earth
  On every wandering breeze;
What, though thou be changeful,
  Though thy gold turns to grey again,
There’s a robin out yonder singing,
  Singing in the rain.

    April!  April!  April! 
  ’Tis the Northland hath longed for thee,
She hath gazed toward the South with aching eyes
  Full long and patiently. 
Come now—­tell us, sweeting,
  Thou laggard so lovely and late,
Dost know there’s no joy like the joy that comes
  When hearts have learned to wait?

PAEANS

Oh!  I will hold fast to Joy! 
  I will not let him depart—­
He shall close his beautiful rainbow wings
  And sing his song in my heart.

And I will live with Delight! 
  I will know what the children know
When they dance along with the April wind
  To find where the catkins grow!

I will dream the old, old dreams,
  And look for pixie and fay
In shadowy woods—­and out on the hills—­
  As we did but yesterday.

Love I will keep in my soul—­
  Ay! even by lock and key! 
There is nothing to fear in all of the world
  If Love will but stay with me.

No, I will not let Faith go! 
  I will say with my latest breath—­
I know there’s a new and radiant road
  On the other side of Death.

THE HARP

Across the wind-swept spaces of the sky
The harp of all the world is hung on high,
And through its shining strings the swallows fly.

The little silver fingers of the rain
Oft touch it softly to a low refrain,
That all day long comes o’er and o’er again.

And when the storms of God above it roll,
The mighty wind awakes its sleeping soul
To songs of wild delight or bitter dole.

And through the quiet night, as faint and far
As melody down-drifted from a star,
Trembles strange music where those harp-strings are.

But only flying words of joy and woe,
Caught from the restless earth-bound souls below,
Over the vibrant wires ebb and flow.

And in the cities that men call their own,
And in the unnamed places, waste and lone,
This harp forever sounds Life’s undertone.

GULLS

When the mist drives past and the wind blows high,
  And the harbour lights are dim—­
See where they circle, and dip and fly,
The grey free-lances of wind and sky,
  To the water’s distant rim!

Like spirits possessed of a fierce delight,
  A courage that cannot fail,
They face the breakers—­they face the night—­
The mad storm-horses are silvery white,
  They ride through the bitter gale!