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.