Alabama, iQi8. 23 



MY LADY APRIL 



-♦^^ 



WHEN down the stair at morning 

 The sunbeams round her float, 

 Sweet rivulets of laughter 



Are bubbling in her throat; 

 The gladness of her greeting 



Is gold without alloy; 

 And in the morning sunlight 

 I think her name is Joy. 



When in the evening twilight 



The quiet book-room lies, 

 We read the sad old ballads, 



While from her hidden eyes 

 The tears are falling, falling. 



That give her heart relief; 

 And in the evening twilight, 



I think her name is Grief. 



My little April lady, 



Of sunshine and of showers, 

 She weaves the old spring magic 



And breaks my heart in flowers ! 

 But when her moods are ended, 



She nestles like a dove; 

 Then, by the pain and rapture, 



I know her name is Love. 



— Henry Van Dyke. 



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