Need We Say It Was

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.

A Person Who Publishes A Book Willfully Appears Before The Populace With His Pants Down. If It Is A Good Book Nothing Can Hurt Him. If It Is A Bad Book Nothing Can Help Him.

Summer Set Lip To Earth's Bosom Bare, And Left The Flushed Print In A Poppy There. I Will Touch A Hundred Flowers And Not Pick One.

I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart, And Not The Full Four Seasons Of The Year.

There Are A Hundred Places Where I Fear To Go, --so With His Memory They Brim! And Entering With Relief Some Quiet Place Where Never Fell His Foot Or Shone His Face I Say, 'there Is No Memory Of Him Here!' And So Stand Stricken, So Remembering Him!