SONG IN EARLY APRIL The gray clouds weep on the brown grass; And the song sparrow still. A hawk screams from the gray sky, A frog pipes one small note from the bare marsh. And his voice was wild and harsh. The hillsides are all streaked with little rills, A snowbird on a bare twig trills, I found a pink moth and his wings were numb, Richard Hunt WHEN SINGING APRIL CAME When singing April came, the land awoke, Pushed up its costly crimson through the sod She sang of death, and rang a challenge out; And the red flower flamed high beneath her words: "Oh, sorrow for the shining, wind-swept highways of the sea! They are made foul with blood. Oh, sorrow for the beauty of earth, For glowing orchards and quivering fields, Oh, sorrow for the beauty of young souls And wrapped them in a winding-sheet of flame." Isabel McKinney BERKSHIRES IN APRIL It is not spring-not yet But at East Schaghticoke I saw an ivory birch It is not spring—not yet— But by Hoosick Falls I saw a robin strutting, Not like the puffed, complacent ball of feathers It is not spring-not yet But up the stocky Pownal hills Some springy shrub, a scarlet gash on the grayness, It is not spring-not yet But at Williamstown the willows are young and golden, Clement Wood Spring crept over the purple hills, Slim and wanton and softly white, Spring danced over the cactus plains, No mad riot of buds, and yet Wild red poppies and mignonette, Flung from her floating garland gown, Spring fled out of the panting South- Rose Henderson BLUE SQUILLS How many million Aprils came How white a cherry bough could be, A bed of squills how blue! And many a light-foot April, When life is done with me, Will lift the blue flame of the flower Oh, burn me with your beauty then, O shaken flowers, O shimmering trees, Wound me, that I through endless sleep Sara Teasdale |