Gran, who was little and fragile and old
And crippled with gout
In the winter's cold,
Her tongue unsharpened by pain, would say,
"I'm waiting for April to come my way.
When a bluebird tips his hat to me
And calls, 'Hello!' I'll be out, you'll see."
How Granny loved April! when with her cane
She would hobble outside
Forgetting her pain.
Like a brave little crocus or flashing blue wing,
She adorned with her brightness the portrait of spring.
Last winter Gran left us: She smiled at those near
Then closed her eyes saying,
"I'll rest till I hear
A bluebird in Heaven call from the skies,
'Come, little Granny! It's April! Arise!'"
