When down the stair at morning <br />The sunbeams round her float, <br />Sweet rivulets of laughter <br />Are bubbling in her throat; <br />The gladness of her greeting <br />Is gold without alloy; <br />And in the morning sunlight <br />I think her name is Joy. <br /> <br />When in the evening twilight <br />The quiet book-room lies, <br />We read the sad old ballads, <br />While from her hidden eyes <br />The tears are falling, falling, <br />That give her heart relief; <br />And in the evening twilight, <br />I think her name is Grief. <br /> <br />My little April lady, <br />Of sunshine and of showers, <br />She weaves the old spring magic, <br />And breaks my heart in flowers! <br />But when her moods are ended, <br />She nestles like a dove; <br />Then, by the pain and rapture, <br />I know her name is Love.<br /><br />Henry Van Dyke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-april-lady/
