“A little while and I shall see
His ships returned to fight for me.

He may not dream what bitter woes
I have to bear; but still he knows
April and I wait patiently.

“I pray you, sirs, that you will keep
Good watch tonight, lest they should creep
Close to the landward wall again;
You might not hear them in this rain.
And I, because I cannot sleep,

“Shall guard this other side, till morn
Show me his sails all gray and torn,
But swift to bring to Charnisay
Tidings that it is Easter Day
On earth, and Jesus Christ is born!)

“Shall he not come? Can he withstand
The beckoning of April’s hand,
The voices of the little streams
That break tonight across his dreams
Of me, alone in a north land?

“Though yesterday in Boston town
Fair women wandered up and down
Warm pathways under green-leaved trees,
Was he not sick with memories
Of April’s hair and starry gown?

“Does he not hear spring’s trumpet blow
Beyond the limits of the snow?
Hark how its silver echo fills
The hollow places of the hills,
Proclaiming winter’s overthrow!

“How glad he was in the old days
To tread those newly opened ways!
Together we would go—as we
Shall go tomorrow, joyously—
And find ten thousand things to praise,

“Things now so sad to think upon.
And yet he must return ere dawn;
Because he hears at the sea’s rim,
Calling across the night to him,
The sundering icebergs of St. John.”

…Now, when dawn broke at last, sullen and gray,
And on the sea there gleamed no distant sail,
She quietly said, “It is not Easter Day,
And in my vision I have dreamed strange dreams.”
Still drave the rain in from the east, and still
The ice churned by the bases of the cliffs,
And little noises woke among the firs.
“And yet,” she said, “beyond the outer seas,
Far off, in France, among the white, white lilies,
Today they think that Eastertide has come;
And maidens deck their bodies amorously,
And go to sing glad hymns to Christ arisen,
Within the little chapel on the hill.
Now shall I fancy it is Easter here,
And think the wasting snow great banks of lilies
And this gray cliff my chapel; and I shall go
And gather seaweed, twining it in my hair,
And know God will regard me graciously
Who fashion such sweet carols in his praise.
I must do this alone, because La Tour
Is dallying still in Boston town, where girls
Make beautiful their hair with southern blooms,—
Wood violets and odorous mayflower blossoms,
Such as come late into our northern fields.
Was it last Easter—was it years ago—
That he and I went joyously together—
(Having prayed Christ to bless us with his grace)—
Between the wasting trunks of the tall pines
Wherein one crow called to the hidden rain?
(For here, although it rain at Easter even,
The dawn breaks golden; and a million hours
Seem flown since yesterday.) O golden France,
Long lost and nigh forgotten! do they know
Who walk today between your palaces
The gladness that we know when April comes
Into the solitude of this our north,
And the snows vanish as her flying feet
Are heard upon the hills? Their organs, now,
Do they sound unto heaven a prouder strain
Than these great pines? Hark how the wind booms through
Their topmost branches, come from the deep sea!
And how old Fundy sends its roaring tides
High up against the rocks! Yea, even in France,
I think God sees not more to make him glad
Today,—only the sunshine and the lilies”—
She paused, hearing the chapel matin bell
Clang wearily; and, like to one that finds
No welcome in some long-imagined land
Now near at last, back from the hopeless sea,
With agèd face, she turned to help them pray
Whose hearts had lost their heritage of hope….