In April

By Edna Mead

Young Spring stands on a hill-top
With a beckoning staff of green
Till I meet his eyes
With a swift surprise
And feel my soul swept clean—

Clean and sweet and vernal
With not one scar nor stain.
Quick for the boon eternal
Of April’s sun and rain.

Young Spring stands on a hill-top
Against the morning gold,
And his song, hurled
Across the world
Till no man more is old.

For he will not walk with sorrow,
But with bursting buds, in sooth,
He lets me glimpse tomorrow,
And the feast he spreads for youth.

Young Spring stands on a hill-top
While I—my hearts aflame!
Young Spring waits on a hill-top,
And calls—my name!

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