Four Seasons

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.

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When reeds are dead and straw to thatch the marshes,
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
Like agèd warriors westward, tragic, thinned
Of half their tribe; an over the flattened rushes,
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek, --
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
My heart. I know that beauty must ail and die,
And will be born again, -- but ah, to see
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
Oh, Autumn! Autumn! -- What is the Spring to me?

When reeds are dead and straw to thatch the marshes,
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
Like agèd warriors westward, tragic, thinned
Of half their tribe; an over the flattened rushes,
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek, --
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
My heart. I know that beauty must ail and die,
And will be born again, -- but ah, to see
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
Oh, Autumn! Autumn! -- What is the Spring to me?

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in the database but will be added
as soon as we obtain it. —

Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,
And all the flowers that in the springtime grow,
And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow
Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing
The summer through, and each departing wing,
And all the nests that the bared branches show,
And all winds that in any weather blow,
And all the storms that the four seasons bring.
You go no more on your exultant feet
Up paths that only mist and morning knew,
Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat
Of a bird’s wings too high in air to view, –
But you were something more than young and sweet
And fair, – and the long year remembers you.