Song of a Second April

April this year, not otherwiseThan April of a year ago,Is full of whispers, full of sighs,Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;Hepaticas that pleased you soAre here again, and butterflies.

There rings a hammering all day,And shingles lie about the doors;In orchards near and far awayThe grey woodpecker taps and bores;And 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 runAmong the mullein stalks the sheepGo up the hillside in the sun,Pensively,--only you are gone,You that alone I cared to keep.

Down, you mongrel, Death!Back into your kennel!I have stolen breathIn a stalk of fennel!You shall scratch and you shall whineMany a night, and you shall worryMany a bone, before you buryOne sweet bone of mine!

When shall I be dead?When my flesh is withered,And above my headYellow pollen gatheredAll the empty afternoon?When sweet lovers pause and wonderWho am I that lie thereunder,Hidden from the moon?

This my personal death?--That my lungs be failingTo inhale the breathOthers are exhaling?This my subtle spirit’s end?--Ah, when the thawed winter splashesOver these chance dust and ashes,Weep not me, my friend!

Me, by no means deadIn that hour, but surelyWhen this book, unread,Rots to earth obscurely,And no more to any breast,Close against the clamorous swellingOf the thing there is no telling,Are these pages pressed!

When this book is mould,And a book of manyWaiting to be soldFor a casual penny,In a little open case,In a street unclean and cluttered,Where a heavy mud is spatteredFrom the passing drays,

Stranger, pause and look;From the dust of agesLift this little book,Turn the tattered pages,Read me, do not let me die!Search the fading letters, findingSteadfast in the broken bindingAll that once was I!

When these veins are weeds,When these hollowed socketsWatch the rooty seedsBursting down like rockets,And surmise the spring again,Or, remote in that black cupboard,Watch the pink worms writhing upwardAt the smell of rain,

Boys and girls that lieWhispering in the hedges,Do not let me die,Mix me with your pledges;Boys and girls that slowly walkIn the woods, and weep, and quarrel,Staring past the pink wild laurel,Mix me with your talk,

Do not let me die!Farmers at your raking,When the sun is high,While the hay is making,When, along the stubble strewn,Withering on their stalks uneaten,Strawberries turn dark and sweetenIn the lapse of noon;

Shepherds on the hills,In the pastures, drowsingTo the tinkling bellsOf the brown sheep browsing;Sailors crying through the storm;Scholars at your study; huntersLost amid the whirling winter’sWhiteness uniform;

Men that long for sleep;Men that wake and revel;--If an old song leapTo your senses’ levelAt such moments, may it beSometimes, though a moment only,Some forgotten, quaint and homelyVehicle of me!

Women at your toil,Women at your leisureTill the kettle boil,Snatch of me your pleasure,Where the broom-straw marks the leaf;Women quiet with your weepingLest you wake a workman sleeping,Mix me with your grief!

Boys and girls that stealFrom the shocking laughterOf the old, to kneelBy a dripping rafterUnder the discoloured eaves,Out of trunks with hingeless coversLifting tales of saints and lovers,Travellers, goblins, thieves,

Suns that shine by night,Mountains made from valleys,--Bear me to the light,Flat upon your belliesBy the webby window lie,Where the little flies are crawling,--Read me, margin me with scrawling,Do not let me die!

Sexton, ply your trade!In a shower of gravelStamp upon your spade!Many a rose shall ravel,Many a metal wreath shall rustIn the rain, and I go singingThrough the lots where you are flingingYellow clay on dust!