Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading <br /> In her reluctant hands. <br />Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading, <br /> As pensively she stands <br />Awaiting Easter's benediction falling, <br /> Like silver stars at night, <br />Before she can obey the summons calling <br /> Her to her upward flight, <br />Awaiting Easter's wings that she must borrow <br /> Ere she can hope to fly-- <br />Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow <br /> Against the far, blue sky. <br />Has not the purple of her vesture's lining <br /> Brought calm and rest to all? <br />Has her dark robe had naught of golden shining <br /> Been naught but pleasure's pall? <br />Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returning <br /> In youth's light joyousness, <br />We'll wear some rarer jewels we found burning <br /> In Lent's black-bordered dress. <br />So hand in hand with fitful March she lingers <br /> To beg the crowning grace <br />Of lifting with her pure and holy fingers <br /> The veil from April's face. <br />Sweet, rosy April--laughing, sighing, waiting <br /> Until the gateway swings, <br />And she and Lent can kiss between the grating <br /> Of Easter's tissue wings. <br />Too brief the bliss--the parting comes with sorrow. <br /> Good-bye dear Lent, good-bye! <br />We'll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrow <br /> Against the far blue sky.<br /><br />Emily Pauline Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/easter-6/
