poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay (circa 1921)April this year, not otherwise Than April of a year ago, Is full of whispers, full of sighs, Of 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; In orchards near and far away The grey 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.

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