Ah, this valentine is partial,
Its witness is all in vain
Since it gives no clue to your answer,
"Sweetheart, Belinda Jane."
Its witness is all in vain
Since it gives no clue to your answer,
"Sweetheart, Belinda Jane."
APRIL DAYS
THESE are the days when we would be alone,
These soft, gray days with margins blue
Where glinting sunlight sifted through
As ragged clouds aside were blown.
These soft, gray days with margins blue
Where glinting sunlight sifted through
As ragged clouds aside were blown.
There is a mystery in the greening sod,
A faint suggestion in the stir
Of growing grass and in the whir
Of silken wings that whisper: "God."
A faint suggestion in the stir
Of growing grass and in the whir
Of silken wings that whisper: "God."
And through the silence there come back again
The faded memories of the past
Washed clean of blotting tears at last—
Revivified—shrived of their pain.
The faded memories of the past
Washed clean of blotting tears at last—
Revivified—shrived of their pain.
They walk beside us through the flecks of sun
Or white, blown rain of April days—
These old, old dreams, and softly raise
The shielding curtain that the years have spun.
Or white, blown rain of April days—
These old, old dreams, and softly raise
The shielding curtain that the years have spun.
And these are all the company we need.
They bring to us, like lost caress,
The weird, sweet peace of loneliness
And teach us love's forgotten creed.
They bring to us, like lost caress,
The weird, sweet peace of loneliness
And teach us love's forgotten creed.
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