MINSTREL WEATHER 



they were just about to endeavor to bite 

 off. Uncertainly the wondering calves 

 proceed about the pasture, not yet at the 

 stage in life where they will skip with 

 touching curiosity after every object that 

 stirs. At dusk and glistening morning 

 there are bird songs such as only April 

 hears the outburst of welcome to the 

 light, and the sleepy fluting of the robins 

 when the sky turns to a soft prism in the 

 west. Fainter, more melancholy even 

 than in March, is the twilight lament of 

 the peepers. They are alien to the aria 

 of April. 



New England's forget-me-nots are fleet 

 turquoise in the grasses; New England's 

 arbutus flowers lie flushed pearls among 

 the ancient leaves; but everywhere are the 

 violets of three colors yellow for the pool's 

 edge, white among the bog lands, and blue 

 as pervasive as the sunlight on hill slope, 

 road bank, and forest floor. And there 

 are violets of an unfathomable blue, 

 sprinkled with white like wisps of cloud 

 against far mountains. Some grow close 

 to earth, taught by past dismay; others, 

 long-stemmed and sweet, will live and 

 suffer and mend their ways next year. 



[22] 



