To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily
I know what I know
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus
The smell of the earth is good
It is apparent that there is no death
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots
Life in itself
Is nothing
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers