Lent was dreary and late that year;
April to May was going;
But the loitering moon refused to round,
And the wild south-east was blowing.
Day by day, from my window high,
I watched, a lonely warder,
For a building bird in the garden-trees
Or a flower in the sheltered border.
But I only heard the chilly rain
On the roof of my chamber beating,
Or the wild sea-wind to the tossing boughs
Its wail of wreck repeating;
And said, "Ah me! 'tis a weary world
This cheerless April weather;
The beautiful things will droop and die,
Blossom and bird together."
At last the storm was spent. I slept,
Lulled by the tired wind's sighing,—
To wake at morn with the sunshine full
On floor and garden lying;
And lo! the hyacinth buds were blown;
A robin was blithely singing;
The cherry-blooms by the wall were white,
And the Easter bells were ringing!
It was long ago, but the memory lives;
And in all life's Lenten sorrows,
When tempests of grief and trouble beat
And I dread the dark to-morrows,
I think of the garden after the rain;
And hope to my heart comes singing,
"At morn the cherry-blooms will be white,
And the Easter bells be ringing!"