Very similar composition to Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Spring" (but perhaps a little sunnier): 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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Very similar composition to Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Spring" (but perhaps a little sunnier):
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.
AH, Edna surely appreciated the beauty of April.
Love this poem (and all things Walt Whitman)–so discomforting and sadly shaped by his Civil War experience. And beautiful.
Beautiful. I'm really not that big of a fan of poetry but I really like this. I'm going to post in on my facebook page. Thanks for sharing!