EASTER
APRIL
I, 1888
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LENT
gathers up her cloak of somber shading
In her reluctant hands.
Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading,
As pensively she stands
Awaiting Easter’s benediction failing,
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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—
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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
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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. [Page 39]
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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
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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.
Goodbye dear Lent, goodbye!
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We’ll
watch your fading wings outlined to-morrow
Against the far blue sky.
[Page 40]
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