April Sundays

SOMEWHERE this April evening I suppose
There are two beings who are the best of friends
As well as mates; and when the daylight ends
They will go home, insensibly drawn close
By the deep darkness wrapping them about.
It may have been at dawn that they set out
To inspect their world and count their kingdom’s wealth;
It may have been at noon, but they have fared
Blithely all day, and all day they have shared,
With that deep faith that, hand in hand with health,
Makes peace of mind and heart. . . . Oh, it were good,
Such weariness of body, after days
Spent sturdily upon the upland ways,
Adventuring together through the wood,
Aimless as children seeking after elves!
Then to discover home and hearth anew!
All the old loyal friendly chairs, a few
Toys on the floor, the worn books on the shelves;
And gleam of copper mirroring the blaze;
The caged bird bought the day the spaniel died
To cheat the tear from eyes too young and wide,
Too new at gazing upon death’s amaze.
And so, to slake the thirsty mind with sleep,
Drink of that mystic potion side by side;
No fears save those in dreams; no gift denied;
No pale dawns watched by eyes too grim to weep.