Easter

April 1, 1888     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.