April Twenty-Second
The dusk of the South is tender
As the touch of a soft, soft hand;
It comes between splendor and splendor,
The sweetest of service to render,
And gathers the cares of the land.
Above it the soft sky blushes
And pales like an April rose;
Within it the South wind hushes,
And the Jessamine’s heart outgushes,
And earth like an emerald glows.
John P. Sjolander
Capture of Plymouth, N. C., by Gen. R. D. Hoke, 1864
April Twenty-Third
In seeds of laurel in the earth
The blossom of your fame is blown;
And somewhere, waiting for its birth,
The shaft is in the stone!
Henry Timrod
Randall writes “My Maryland” at Pointe Coupee, La., 1861
Father Ryan dies, 1886
April Twenty-Fourth