April this year, not otherwise
       Than April of a year ago,
     Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
       Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
       Hepaticas that pleased you so
     Are here again, and butterflies.

     There rings a hammering all day,
       And shingles lie about the doors;
     In orchards near and far away
       The grey wood-pecker taps and bores;
       The men are merry at their chores,
     And children earnest at their play.

     The larger streams run still and deep,
       Noisy and swift the small brooks run
     Among the mullein stalks the sheep
       Go up the hillside in the sun,
       Pensively,—only you are gone,
     You that alone I cared to keep.

     For the sake of some things
       That be now no more
     I will strew rushes
       On my chamber-floor,
     I will plant bergamot
       At my kitchen-door.

     For the sake of dim things
       That were once so plain
     I will set a barrel
       Out to catch the rain,
     I will hang an iron pot
       On an iron crane.

     Many things be dead and gone
       That were brave and gay;
     For the sake of these things
       I will learn to say,
     "An it please you, gentle sirs,"
       "Alack!" and "Well-a-day!"

     Down, you mongrel, Death!
       Back into your kennel!
     I have stolen breath
       In a stalk of fennel!
     You shall scratch and you shall whine
       Many a night, and you shall worry
       Many a bone, before you bury
     One sweet bone of mine!

     When shall I be dead?
       When my flesh is withered,
     And above my head
       Yellow pollen gathered
     All the empty afternoon?
       When sweet lovers pause and wonder
       Who am I that lie thereunder,
     Hidden from the moon?

     This my personal death?—
       That lungs be failing
     To inhale the breath
       Others are exhaling?
     This my subtle spirit's end?—
       Ah, when the thawed winter splashes
       Over these chance dust and ashes,
     Weep not me, my friend!

     Me, by no means dead
       In that hour, but surely
     When this book, unread,
       Rots to earth obscurely,
     And no more to any breast,
       Close against the clamorous swelling
       Of the thing there is no telling,
     Are these pages pressed!

     When this book is mould,
       And a book of many
     Waiting to be sold
       For a casual penny,
     In a little open case,
       In a street unclean and cluttered,
       Where a heavy mud is spattered
     From the passing drays,

     Stranger, pause and look;
       From the dust of ages
     Lift this little book,
       Turn the tattered pages,
     Read me, do not let me die!
       Search the fading letters,