PASTURES by MARGARET PERKINS BRIGGS

They are too lost in yesterday, -- too dull
From brooding in a winter of their own,
To heed, at all, how vaguely beautiful
The dusks are, hinting of a warmer tone;
And how the proud stars, softened to the glow
Of daffodils, lean nearer in an old
Gesture to share some secret that they know
With fields still aching for lost flocks to fold.

But, biding in their winter yet, they brood
Unceasingly on grievous memories;
And do not mark the lilac in the mood
Of hesitant twilights, nor make friends with these
Old stars with April in their eyes, of late . . .
And flocks for lonely pastures where they wait.

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