by Louis Ginsberg

So beautiful it is, this April dusk,
        This quiet twilight after wistful rain,
That everything is breathless, lest it stir
        The mystery that haunts this meadow lane.

A hush is clinging to the hallowed air.
        I hear the murmur of the looms of Spring.
I see the testament of leaf and grass;
        And glory lurk in every simple thing!

Until I think, within this wistful dusk,
        Within this miracle of bud and tree,
Heaven must be a land of haunted lanes,
        Where April blossoms out eternally!

Born and raised in Newark, Louis Ginsberg (1895-1976) became one of the most widely read American poets of the twentieth century.  In his later years Ginsberg’s verse found new audiences through public readings with his son, the Beat poet Allen Ginsberg.

“April Twilight” appeared in The Attic of the Past and other lyrics (1920).