Those sparkling visitants from myrtle isles, Wee pilgrims of the sun, that measure miles Innumerable over land and sea With wings of shining inches. Flakes of glee, They filled that dark old oak with jubilee, Foretelling in delicious roundelays Their dainty courtships on the dipping sprays, How they should fashion nests, mate helping mate, Of milkweed flax and fern-down delicate To keep sky-tinted eggs inviolate. Listening to those blithe notes, I slipped once more From lyric dawn through dreamland's open door, And there was God, Eternal Life that sings, Eternal joy, brooding all mortal things, A nest of stars, beneath untroubled wings. April -- North Carolina. [Harriet Monroe] Would you not be in Tryon Now that the spring is here, When mocking-birds are praising The fresh, the blossomy year? Look -- on the leafy carpet Woven of winter's browns Iris and pink azaleas Flutter their gaudy gowns. The dogwood spreads white meshes -- So white and light and high -- To catch the drifting sunlight Out of the cobalt sky. The pointed beech and maple, The pines, dark-tufted, tall, Pattern with many colors The mountain's purple wall. Hark -- what a rushing torrent Of crystal song falls sheer! Would you not be in Tryon Now that the spring is here? Path Flower. [Olive Tilford Dargan] A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood, A lark o'er Golder's lane, As I the April pathway trod Bound west for Willesden. At foot each tiny blade grew big And taller stood to hear, And every leaf on every twig Was like a little ear. As I too paused, and both ways tried To catch the rippling rain, -- So still, a hare kept at my side His tussock of disdain, -- Behind me close I heard a step, A soft pit-pat surprise, And looking round my eyes fell deep Into sweet other eyes; The eyes like wells, where sun lies too, So clear and trustful brown, Without a bubble warning you That here's a place to drown. "How many miles?" Her broken shoes Had told of more than one. She answered like a dreaming Muse, "I came from Islington." "So long a tramp?" Two gentle nods, Then seemed to lift a wing, And words fell soft as willow-buds, "I came to find the Spring." A timid voice, yet not afraid In ways so sweet to roam, As it with honey bees had played And could no more go home. Her home! I saw the human lair, I heard the huckster's bawl, I stifled with the thickened air Of bickering mart and stall. Without a tuppence for a ride, Her feet had set her free. Her rags, that decency defied, Seemed new with liberty. But she was frail. Who would might note The trail of hungering That for an hour she had forgot In wonder of the Spring. So shriven by her joy she glowed It seemed a sin to chat. (A tea-shop snuggled off the road; Why did I think of that?) Oh, frail, so frail! I could have wept, -- But she was passing on, And I but muddled, "You'll accept A penny for a bun?"