The last poem I posted was one by Mary Oliver. She has a connection to this poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay. When Oliver was a teenager, she lived in Millay's home briefly, helping to put the deceased poet's papers in order. And here is a brief April-themed poem from the melancholy pen of Edna St. Vincent Millay:
Song Of A Second April
April this year, not otherwise
Than April of a year ago,
Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.
There rings a hammering all day,
And shingles lie about the doors;
In orchards near and far away
The grey wood-pecker taps and bores;
The men are merry at their chores,
And children earnest at their play.
The larger streams run still and deep,
Noisy and swift the small brooks run
Among the mullein stalks the sheep
Go up the hillside in the sun,
Pensively,—only you are gone,
You that alone I cared to keep.