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