Futile Spring
I can endure it that the house is still,
Dark shuttered to the sunlight, that the doors
That knew no keys are fast to April’s call
And only silence creaks across the floors.
I can endure it that the narrow path,
Winding through orchard ways, beneath the grass
Holds all unknown pale violets and stars
Of wild strawberries where no footsteps pass.
I can endure that petals drift unseen
On hidden streams, that swallows dip and wing
Thrice circling round; but grief too great is this:
The wide barn doors are closed against the spring.
