The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets


by Ethelwyn Wetherald



 

APRIL IN THE CITY.



APRIL sunshine along the street
     Is turning the motes of dust to gold.
Scant is the green to our longing feet,
     To our longing eyes few buds unfold.

     Only in vision are slopes unrolled

5

     And orchards full as their arms can hold,
     And stories in exquisite cadence told
By the willowed stream in its sweet retreat.

     Yet even here the heart grown cold
Flushes with sudden inward heat,

10

When April sunshine along the street
     Is turning the motes of dust to gold. [Page 20]