God calls the day. Soft, luminous and slow,
The great sun trembles down the
trembling West
trembling West
And leaves its gold upon the ocean’s
breast.
breast.
Into the East, in one white, chastened glow,
Rises the silver moon―as yet so low
It seems to draw itself free of the trees.
The golden-cups are drenched with dew; the breeze
Is sweet with last night’s rain; and blown with snow
The fruit trees stand, pure as a dream of love,
Or kisses of a child; their pale blooms fall―
Still, petaled stars―across the purple light.
And listen―hush! Somewhere a mourning-dove
Is plaining to the silence and the night―
A human heart-break in her grieving call.
“April Night” as it appears in Higginson’s When the Birds Go North Again (1898).