My hand drew back a curtain. There was a morning and there was a springtime, Palest green with a ripple of running silver, Running backward, away. There was a child with a windy cloak in an arbor; All things slipped away from her, one after another, Slipping backward, away. Last, the child, and with her the morning and springtime All slipped backward, away. Where they went, all dead splendors had gone before them. My hand dropped from the curtain suddenly . . . And there, standing up in the sky, were arches of April, Ripple of green and the pale gold buds of forsythia; Young streams starting and ripple of silver; All lost treasures of spring and the early morning; And there in the arbor Was the child with a windy cloak. My hand, that pushed back the curtain, made all the motion; My own hand, pushing back the curtain, was all that moved. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MEASURE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE GENERAL PUBLIC by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET TO SAMUEL COLERIDGE UPON HEARING HIS 'SOME I FEEL LIKE A MOTHERLESS..' by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TUNK (A LECTURE ON MODERN EDUCATION) by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON OWL AGAINST ROBIN by SIDNEY LANIER SLEEPING TOGETHER by KATHERINE MANSFIELD |