Spring’s return feels distant and almost impossible to the speaker, because the season’s promise of new life collides with the losses of war. She notices the scent of buds and leaves, the lengthening days, the grass beginning to grow, and the apple trees about to bloom. Yet each sign of renewal only sharpens her sorrow: how can daylight linger so that men can keep fighting? How can grass have the heart to sway over fresh graves? The poem ends with the ache of lovers who once walked under the blossoming boughs and are now separated by death.
That repeated question—“How can?”—creates a mood of weary, bewildered grief. Spring usually means hope, but here its beauty feels almost cruel against so much suffering. Teasdale keeps the language simple and songlike, which makes the sorrow feel quiet and intimate rather than dramatic.