I can find her many footsteps, I can hear her ribbons rustle, And at last I see her breathless in a beautiful high place -- I reach my aching hands to her and cry aloud, "Oh, April!" I cannot bear in silence the wonder of her face. The birds wait on the wind for her, they call from sun to shadow, The deep grass hears them murmur, and their wings beat on the sky -- They have seen her coming homeward across the evening meadow, And they follow her with singing, for they must sing or die! But the hills are bowed and humble, kneeling priests before an altar, They let her pass in silence like a pale and holy nun -- Without either prayer or chanting they receive her benediction As she lights her flames among them, softly one by one. |