Emily Pauline Johnson


    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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