Thursday, April 7, 2016

Spring by Edna St. Vincent Millay


By Edna St. Vincent Millay

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,
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.


Jonathan Chant said...

Apt poem. Lot's to think about here, the line on maggots in particular. Lovely flowers too.

Not feeling much sun on my neck yet. Still chilly here.

erin said...

thank god for such optimistic ignorance:)

just listening to a program on viktor frankl. i think he would agree that it is necessary. that spring is a form of love.

Marion said...

Jonathan, we basically had no winter this year here in the luscious swamps. I hope you're basking in the sun soon! Thanks for stopping by. xo

Erin, yes to optimistic ignorance. :-) I like that statement: Spring IS a form of love. Every year I marvel at the miraculous transformation of seed to flower and flower to food. Fuck science, I'll always believe it's a miracle!!!! Poets rock!!! xo

She Writes said...

Gorgeous poem, though it aches. The profusion of pink is worth another April.