Spring

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I oserve
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.

Edna St Vincent Millay