The Twentieth of April
by Stephen O'Brien

This year, now late in April, the flowers burst in blooms,
A symphony of colour, we celebrate them soon.
The buds of green and purple had tantalizing scent,
A smell pleasing the senses of any knowing ent.

The bright and sunny sky was an omen for the day
To bring each other cheer, to frolic and to play.
Though slothful nature is common at these events,
Our souls would be nurtured by each others presence.

And the silly actions of these people wouldn't,
Serve to tell what they should do or couldn't .
A flight of fancy brought us back to earth,
While we supped together looking at the hearth.

Brought to fruition were plans to raise us all,
Higher than anyone thought before the fall.
Back to before a natural practice,
Inspired them to watch over a cactus.

A grimy sort of resinated glassware,
Makes us conscious of what we should beware.
Though we would never stoop down to admit,
Most of our activities would not be thought legit.

It brings my thoughts to the presence of the state,
And consequences of such ruining one's fate,
Unnatural problems from limits on life,
Brings people and actions leading all to strife.

But not all is lost- we're excited tonight,
Our spirits are strong, our passions burn bright.
And not all in vain do we hope for the future,
We'll fix this wound as a surgeon would suture.

In unsilenced tongues we will speak for tomorrow,
So none of us ever would be drowned in sorrow.
We're happy for now, with happiness aplenty,
A glorious day, this year, was four-twenty.

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The Nineteenth of April
by Lucy Larcom

This year, till late in April, the snow fell thick and light:
Thy truce-flag, friendly Nature, in clinging drifts of white,
Hung over field and city: now everywhere is seen,
In place of that white quietness, a sudden glow of green.

The verdure climbs the Common, beneath the leafless trees,
To where the glorious Stars and Stripes are floating on the breeze.
There, suddenly as Spring awoke from Winter’s snow-draped gloom,
The Passion-Flower of Seventy-six is bursting into bloom.

Dear is the time of roses, when earth to joy is wed,
And garden-plot and meadow wear one generous flush of red;
But now in dearer beauty, to her ancient colors true,
Blooms the old town of Boston in red and white and blue.

Along the whole awakening North are those bright emblems spread;
A summer noon of patriotism is burning overhead:
No party badges flaunting now, no word of clique or clan;
But “Up for God and Union!” is the shout of every man.

Oh, peace is dear to Northern hearts; our hard-earned homes more dear;
But freedom is beyond the price of any earthly cheer;
And freedom’s flag is sacred; he who would work it harm,
Let him, although a brother, beware our strong right arm!

A brother! ah, the sorrow, the anguish of that word!
The fratricidal strife begun, when will its end be heard?
Not this the boon that patriot hearts have prayed and waited for;—
We loved them, and we longed for peace: but they would have it war.

Yes; war! on this memorial day, the day of Lexington,
A lightning-thrill along the wires from heart to heart has run.
Brave men we gazed on yesterday, to-day for us have bled:
Again is Massachusetts blood the first for Freedom shed.

To war,—and with our brethren, then,—if only this can be!
Life hangs as nothing in the scale against dear Liberty!
Though hearts be torn asunder, for Freedom we will fight:
Our blood may seal the victory, but God will shield the Right!