FO-40.

When the grass was closely mown,
Walking on the lawn alone,
In the turf a hole I found,
And hid a soldier underground.
Spring and daisies came apace;
Grasses hide my hiding place;
Grasses run like a green sea
Oer the lawn up to my knee.

FO-39.

In many ways April is a kind of down time, shoulder season, off-peak, a kind of gray zone between the big winter events and the promise of summer. So perhaps it is the crocuses, the slightly warmer days, the lengthening hours of light that makes April also about poetry. Popularly conceived of as off-peak, the practice of poetry seems to fit in with the promise of the season.

FO-38.

Come, fill the Cup and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly - and Lo! The Bird is on the Wing.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

FO-37.

Is it so small a thing
To have enjoyed the sun,
To have lived light in the spring,
To have loved, to have thought, to have done?

FO-36.

There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heavens hill, that has endured
As Aprils green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallows wings.