The Visitor Poem by Clinton Scollard

WITHOUT my door at morning-tide
There rang a summons hale and fair;
I roused and threw the portal wide,
And lo, young April there!

I saw the sunlight in her eyes,
And her anemone lips aglow;
She beckoned in beguiling wise;
I could not choose but go.

The grass beneath her quickening feet
Rippled with silvery green once more,
And many a rill ran singing sweet
By many a leaning shore.

She led me high among the hills
By paths that wilding wanderers use,
Where the magician Morn distils
The honey of his dews.

Bloom-secrecies she showed to me,
The coils through which all being stirs,
Till, spelled by her soft witchery,
My heart was wholly hers.

So now when up the year's bright slope
A call comes ringing o'er and o'er,
I fling the portal wide, in hope
'Tis April at the door.