POETRY.
APRIL.
BENEATH the green fir-branches where doves sit wing to wing A maid comes up the pathway across the woods of Spring; Her face is lit with sunshine, her eyes are soft with showers, Her heart is filled with music and both her hands with flowers.
Her tresses touch the beeches, her feet dance in the dew, And fair about her shoulders the white clouds fleck the blue; Primroses are her fortune and daffodils her care ; Her hand is slipped in Summer's ere half the world's aware.
The last snow fades before her, and, looking in her eyes, Spelled by their witching magic the last rude storm-wind dies, And on the cradle-branches down all the woodlands deep Like a child tired of playing drops suddenly to sleep.
She stands within our garden at breaking of the day, One hand holds dying snowdrops and one holds budding may; She stands within our garden at gathering of the night, One foot on silver dewdrops and one on hoar-frost white.
A month before her coming the thrush to song has thrilled, A month behind her passing the nesting swallows build ; And this is happy April, fair maid of sun and showers, With her heart filled with music and both her hands with flowers ! flowers !
WILL H. OGILVIE.
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