MY LADY APRIL

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MY LADY APRIL

Dew on her robe and on her tangled hair;

        Twin dewdrops for her eyes; behold her pass,

        With dainty step brushing the young, green grass,

The while she trills some high, fantastic air,

Full of all feathered sweetness: she is fair,

        And all her flower-like beauty, as a glass,

        Mirrors out hope and love: and still, alas!

Traces of tears her languid lashes wear.

Say, doth she weep for very wantonness?

        Or is it that she dimly doth foresee

Across her youth the joys grow less and less,

        The burden of the days that are to be:

        Autumn and withered leaves and vanity,

And winter bringing end in barrenness.

Arthur Hughes APRIL LOVE Oil on canvas. 1855–1856 Tate, London

Артур Хьюз АПРЕЛЬСКАЯ ЛЮБОВЬ Холст, масло. 1855–1856 Галерея Тейт, Лондон