Poems (Cary)/April

For works with similar titles, see April.

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APRIL.
 If, in the sunshine of this April morn,Thick as the furrows of the unsown corn,I saw the grave-mounds darkening in the wayThat I have come, I would not therefore layMy brow against their shadows. Sadly brownMay fade the boughs once blowing brightly downAbout my playing; never any moreMay fall my knocking on the homestead door,And never more the wild birds (pretty things)Against my yellow primrose beds their wingsMay nearly slant, as singing toward the woodsThey fly in summer. Shall I hence take moods Of moping melancholy—sobbings wildFor the blue modest eyes, that sweetly litAll my lost youth? Nay! though this rhyme were writ By funeral torches, I would yet have smiledBetwixt the verses. God is good, I know;And though in this bad soil a time we grow Crooked and ugly, all the ends of things ​Must be in beauty. Love can work no ill; And though we see the shadow of its wingsOnly at times, shall we not trust it still! So, even for the dead I will not bindMy soul to grief: Death cannot long divide; For is it not as if the rose that climbedMy garden wall, had bloomed the other side?

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