Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading 
 In her reluctant hands. 
Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading, 
 As pensively she stands 
Awaiting Easter's benediction falling, 
 Like silver stars at night, 
Before she can obey the summons calling 
 Her to her upward flight, 
Awaiting Easter's wings that she must borrow 
 Ere she can hope to fly-- 
Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow 
 Against the far, blue sky. 
Has not the purple of her vesture's lining 
 Brought calm and rest to all? 
Has her dark robe had naught of golden shining 
 Been naught but pleasure's pall? 
Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returning 
 In youth's light joyousness, 
We'll wear some rarer jewels we found burning 
 In Lent's black-bordered dress. 
So hand in hand with fitful March she lingers 
 To beg the crowning grace 
Of lifting with her pure and holy fingers 
 The veil from April's face. 
Sweet, rosy April--laughing, sighing, waiting 
 Until the gateway swings, 
And she and Lent can kiss between the grating 
 Of Easter's tissue wings. 
Too brief the bliss--the parting comes with sorrow. 
 Good-bye dear Lent, good-bye! 
We'll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrow 
 Against the far blue sky.