Spring

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.

City Trees

The trees along this city street,
 ；  ； Save for the traffic and the trains,
Would make a sound as thin and sweet
 ；  ； As trees in country lanes.

And people standing in their shade
 ；  ； Out of a shower, undoubtedly
Would hear such music as is made
 ；  ； Upon a country tree.


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