EASTER

Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading

In her reluctant hands.

Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading,

As pensively she stands

Awaiting Easter's benediction falling,

Like silver stars at night,

Before she can obey the summons calling

Her to her upward flight,

Awaiting Easter's wings that she must borrow

Ere she can hope to fly —

Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow

Against the far, blue sky.

Has not the purple of her vesture's lining

Brought calm and rest to all?

Has her dark robe had naught of golden shining

Been naught but pleasure's pall?

Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returning

In youth's light joyousness,

We'll wear some rarer jewels we found burning

In Lent's black-bordered dress.

So hand in hand with fitful March she lingers

To beg the crowning grace

Of lifting with her pure and holy fingers

The veil from April's face.

Sweet, rosy April — laughing, sighing, waiting

Until the gateway swings,

And she and Lent can kiss between the grating

Of Easter's tissue wings.

Too brief the bliss — the parting comes with sorrow.

Good-bye dear Lent, good-bye!

We'll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrow

Against the far blue sky.