No one but Night, with tears on her dark face, watches beside me in this windy place. - 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,
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;
From orchards near and far away
The gray wood-pecker 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 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.

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends — It gives a lovely light!

Many a bard's untimely death Lends unto his verses breath; Here's a song was never sung: Growing old is dying young.