April

1862 –

1940

Ah, who is this with twinkling feet,
With glad, young eyes and laughter sweet,
     Who tosses back her strong, wild hair,
     And saucy kisses flings to Care,
     The while she laughs at her? Beware—
You who this winsome maiden meet!

She dances on a daisied throne,
About her waist a slender zone
     Of dandelion’s gold; her eyes
     Are softer than the summer skies,
     And blue as violets; and lies
A tearful laughter in her tone.

She reaches dimpled arms and bare;
Her breath is sweet as wild-rose air;
     She sighs, she smiles, she glances down,
     Her brows meet in a sudden frown;
     She laughs; then tears the violets drown—
If you should meet her—ah, beware!

This poem was published in When the Birds Go North Again (The Macmillan Company, 1898). It is in the public domain.

Four-Leaf Clover

I know a place where the sun is like gold,
     And the cherry blooms burst with snow,
And down underneath is the loveliest nook,
     Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith,
     And one is for love, you know,
And God put another in for luck—
     If you search, you will find where they grow.

But you must have hope, and you must have faith,
      You must love and be strong—and so—
If you work, if you wait, you will find the place
     Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

Ella Higginson

2017

A Thank-Offering

Lord God, the winter has been sweet and brief
     In this fair land;
For us the budded willow and the leaf,
     The peaceful strand.

For us the silver nights and golden days,
     The violet mist;
The pearly clouds pierced with vibrating rays
     Of amethyst.

At evening, every wave of our blue sea
     Hollowed to hold
A fragment of the sunset’s mystery—
     A fleck of gold.

The crimson haze is on the alder trees
     In places lush;
Already sings with sweet and lyric ease

Ella Higginson

2017

The Passing of the Hours

The hours steal by with still, unasking lips—
     So lightly that I cannot hear their tread;
And softly touch me with their finger-tips
     To find if I be dreaming, or be dead.

And yet however still their flight may be,
     Their ceaseless going weights my heart with tears;
These touches will have wrought deep scars on me—
     When the light hours have worn to heavy years.

Ella Higginson

2017

Poems

April

More by this poet

Four-Leaf Clover

A Thank-Offering

The Passing of the Hours

Poems

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April

More by this poet

Four-Leaf Clover

A Thank-Offering

The Passing of the Hours

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