April 2015
 |
| April 2015 |
An April Night
By Lucy Maud Montgomery
The moon comes up o’er the deeps of the
woods,
And the long, low dingles that hide in the
hills,
Where the ancient beeches are moist with
buds
Over the pools and the whimpering rills;
And with her the mists, like dryads that
creep
From their oaks, or the spirits of pine-hid
springs,
Who hold, while the eyes of the world are
asleep,
With the wind on the hills their gay
revellings.
Down on the marshlands with flicker and
glow
Wanders Will-o’-the-Wisp through the night,
Seeking for witch-gold lost long ago
By the glimmer of goblin lantern-light.
The night is a sorceress, dusk-eyed and
dear,
Akin to all eerie and elfin things,
Who weaves about us in meadow and mere
The spell of a hundred vanished Springs.
Compare 2014 to 2015
Grandma Snyder
©2013-2015 twosnydergirls
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