Hark to April's merry laughter! Glad is she to reach this earth. Perhaps she'll weep a minute after—sorrow often follows mirth. Not to-day, though, will she sorrow; she's our Jester, queen of fun. Time enough to weep to-morrow, when her roguishness is done. Cap and bells is April wearing, Punchinello in her hand; jokes with Brother Wind she's sharing, mortals cannot understand. Oh! beware of April's laughter; trust her not, she is not true. First she laughs—a minute after, she will make a fool of you. Now I've warned you, you'll be clever, quite prepared for April's wit. Let her whisper "Perfect weather," you'll not be deceived by it! April her attire is flaunting, cap and bells and motley gay; and her smile is mocking, taunting—April's fools are we to-day. Play the Jester, little April, just for four and twenty hours. Then to duty, naughty April—earth awaits your smiles and show'rs.
THE SONG OF THE SOUL
"I have put on mine armour," sings the soul. "The flashing armour of will to do the Right. Thus I go forth, not blindly t'wards the goal, but guided safely, by the Light." "Righteousness for armour," cries the soul. "Beauty and Truth—the longed-for goal." "Beneath mine armour," chants the soul, "I've donned a scarlet tunic for my spirit's sake. In scarlet tunic, to the great Beyond, with courage flaming, to the road I take. Righteousness for armour, flashing bright; a scarlet tunic—for courage in the night." "I will go forth and in this armour clad to meet Temptation, that most subtle foe. Like David of Bethlehem, the shepherd lad, sure of my strength and power, I go. And in the stream of Truth I'll find missiles to fling against Goliath's mind. I have put on my armour: Truth my sword; Slave unto none, but Captained by the Lord."
A BED-TIME SONG
Sleepy shadows fear to fall, so they lean against the wall, while the tall dock in the hall sings: "'Tis time for bed." Wooden hills we now must climb. Up we go, two at a time, singing such a sleepy rhyme, little Curly Head. Wooden hills, clip-clop, clip-clop. First a jump, and then a hop. Now we've reached the very top, nursery fire glows red. Sleepy town we've reached at last, dreamland's ship is anchored fast, rosy fancies fly the mast, prayers must now be said. Weigh the anchor, off you go. Dreamland's miles away, you know. Little dreams as white as snow wait for Curly Head. Sleepy shadows fear to fall, lean against the nursery wall, and to one another call: "Sleepy Head's in bed!"
AN ANNIVERSARY
My House! I give you thanks tonight for one year's comfort and delight. I thank the sturdy walls and beams that have enclosed my quiet dreams. I thank the windows through which came pale shafts of light and sunset's flame. The dining-room I thank as well, where I my hunger did dispel! I thank my bedroom, papered blue, for when sore wearied through and through, it spoke to me: "O Sleepy Head, I bid you welcome to your bed." I give the floors a grateful glance for every joyous whirling dance. The fireplace owns my thankful heart—what comfort from its depths can dart! What dreams I've dreamt when near its blaze; what pictures seen as I would gaze within the birch-log's flames of gold that leapt like dragons fierce and bold. But most of all I thank the door—the thick front door, oak at its core, because for twelve months now on end it has let in some dear-loved friend!
TO A FLORIST'S WINDOW
How often have I paused to bless your vivid, glowing loveliness! Have paused to say a "Thank you, window-pane," because despite a sullen fog or driving rain, I still have had my glimpse of Paradise through your untroubled, bright, reflecting eyes. My heart was sad when vanished summer days. I came to you and stood a silent while, and felt uplifted on the wings of praise. Rich autumn tints, God bless your golden smile! Once when a blackish mood enveloped me, sprays of white lilac arched your shining pane; the beauty of their curves spoke tenderly; and I passed on, happy, revived again. And now 'tis glorious tulip time with you! Yesterday their happy colours beckoned me. Rose pink and mauve and sunlight's golden hue. Did you, quiet window-pane, not feel the ecstasy that flooded all my being while I stood to bless a florist's window—as all city pilgrims should?