April-Blue

(To The Word Weavers)

I was a stranger,

Cold,

Alone in the crowd.

Trembling,

I feared the loud,

Harsh music of life.

When her foot was on the soft pedal,

I heard you call in friend-syllables.

Answering, I knew

That winter's steel-cold eyes

Would soon be April-blue.

April on Southwind

A white steed canters into view--
A gay staccato drumming!
The music, a lark-retinue,
Announces April's coming.

Oh, very lightly does she ride--
The silver hooves are prancing--
For is she not the earth's new bride
Who comes with song and dancing?

April Begins Her Review

Warm fingers all gently are tapping

Their rhythm on glad window-panes.

Bright goblets of gold are refilling

With diamonds of crystalline rains.

Joy's horsemen are merrily riding.

With magic in each silver hoof,

Their steeds are now galloping, prancing,

And stamping on each sunning roof.

They dance on the meadow-pavilions

Fresh-carpeted emerald green

Gold-sprigged, by the weaver of beauty,

And starred with white clover between.

The voice of the southwind announcing,

The music, a lark-retinue,

With gay crocus footlights, illuming,

Blond April begins her review.