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.
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