POETRY.
On! met ye April on your way— And was she grave or was she gay— Saw ye a primrose chaplet lair— Upon her tangled, wind-tossed hair ?
And had she on a kirtle green, The sweetest robe was ever seen?
Oh! met ye April on your way, With eyes like dove's breast meek and grey ?
Yes, I met April on my way, Part morrow and part yesterday— And she went laughing, she was sad— Wayward and pensive, grave and glad.
The fluttering fabric of her gown— Was emerald green, in shadow brown, Soft grey as dove's breast were her eyes, And bluest blue of summer skies! Light fell her step upon the grass, As though a faery queen did pass; Her hands were cold yet full of flowers, Her loose hair wet with pattering showers !
Strung daisies for a girdle white
Were wound about her bosom slight—
Yes ! I met April on my way, And swift she stole my heart to-day !
EDITH C. M. DART,
Previous page
