Not as our home looks today, but as it did late last April.
It will again.
For now, this from Archibald Lampman's Poems (Toronto: William Briggs, 1915):
APRIL NIGHT
How deep the April night is in its noon,
The hopeful, solemn, many-murmured night!
The earth lies hushed with expectation; bright
Above the world's dark border burns the moon,
Yellow and large; from forest floorways, strewn
With flowers, and fields that tingle with new birth,
The moist smell of the unimprisoned earth
Come up, a sigh, a haunting promise. Soon
Ah, soon, the teeming triumph! At my feet
The river with its stately sweep and wheel
Moves on slow-motioned, luminous, gray like steel.
From fields far off whose watery hollows gleam,
Aye with blown throats that make the long hours sweet,
The sleepless toads are murmuring in their dreams.
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Really? Your home? I love it.
ReplyDelete'Tis, Susan. We're blessed.
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