April twilights, and other poems

“A crimson fire that vanquishes the stars;A pungent odor from the dusty sage;A sudden stirring of the huddled herds;A breaking of the distant table-landsThrough purple mists ascending, and the flareOf water ditches silver in the light;A swift, bright lance hurled low across the world;A sudden sickness for the hills of home.””

— Willa Cather

“Fides, SpesJoy is come to the little Everywhere;Pink to the peach and pink to the apple, White to the pear.Stars are come to the dogwood, Astral, pale;Mists are pink on the red-bud, Veil after veil.Flutes for the feathery locusts, Soft as spray;Tongues of the lovers for chestnuts, poplars, Babbling May.Yellow plumes for the willows’ Wind-blown hair;Oak trees and sycamores only Comfortless bare.Sore from steel and the watching, Somber and old,”

— Willa Cather