The first of April! yet November's haze Hangs on the wood, and blurs the hill's blue tip: The light of noon rests wanly on the strip Of sandy road, recalling leaf-laid ways, Shades stilled in death, and tender twilight days Ere Winter lifts the wind-trump to his lip. No moss is shyly seen a tuft to raise, Nor under grass a gold-eyed flower to dip; Nor sound is breathed, but haply the south west Faint rippling in the brushes of the pine, Or of the shrunken leaf dry-fluttering. Compact the village lies, a whitened line Gathered in smoke. What holds this brooding rest? Is it dead Autumn, or the dreaming Spring? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BAD CHILD'S BOOK OF BEASTS: INTRODUCTION by HILAIRE BELLOC THE LAST MAN'S CLUB by JAMES GALVIN TO SEE THE STARS IN DAYLIGHT by JAMES GALVIN DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 3. TEESTAY by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON EPITAPH IN A CHURCH-YARD IN CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA by AMY LOWELL DISMAL MOMENT PASSING by CLARENCE MAJOR HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 2 by EZRA POUND RAHEL TO VARNHAGEN by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON GOOD-BYE DOROTHY GAYLE: ST. CLOUD, MINNESOTA by KAREN SWENSON |