About life down this hill

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.


From "Spring," by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Decembers

about nobody

I thought I smelled Grandmother today. This made me feel far away for the first time in awhile. There was winter, now it's summer, and there was no interruption.

Spring

  -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,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.



Note:
First read this in eighth grade.

Her Anxiety

  - by W.B.Yeats

Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring.
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing. 
Prove that I lie.

Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death. 
Prove that I lie.

Roses are in bloom