Spring 1956 • Vol. XVIII No. 2 Poetry |

Spring Shade

The April winds rise, and the willow whips Lash one another's green in rinsing light. The dream eludes the waking finger tips. Buffets the breakfast pane and flashes white As a mercury arc the sun in the silverware. A screen door slams. Today the May flies bite. Odor of lilac on the billowing air Enters the child's room. Robin Red Breast grieves The man of memory in his iron chair. A girl in watered blue, as he conceives, And shy from study on the garden grass, Turned a great page of sun print and new leaves, Closing the volume. You may leave the class, The Teacher seemed to say; and he was Dunce. Now all the colored crayons break, alas, And all the daffodils blow black at once.

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Colorado

By Robert Fitzgerald

The April winds rise, and the willow whips Lash one another's green in rinsing light. The dream eludes the waking finger tips. Buffets the breakfast pane and flashes white As […]

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