Part 1

Produced by Judy Boss

SECOND APRIL

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

TO MY BELOVED FRIEND CAROLINE B. DOW

CONTENTS

SPRING INLAND CITY TREES TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG WRAITH JOURNEY EBB EEL-GRASS ELAINE ELEGY BEFORE DEATH BURIAL THE BEAN-STALK MARIPOSA WEEDS THE LITTLE HILL PASSER MORTUUS EST DOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERON PASTORAL LAMENT ASSAULT EXILED TRAVEL THE DEATH OF AUTUMN LOW-TIDE ODE TO SILENCE SONG OF A SECOND APRIL MEMORIAL TO D. C. ROSEMARY UNNAMED SONNETS I-XII THE POET AND HIS BOOK WILD SWANS ALMS

SECOND APRIL

SPRING

To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots, Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

CITY TREES

The trees along this city street, Save for the traffic and the trains, Would make a sound as thin and sweet As trees in country lanes.

And people standing in their shade Out of a shower, undoubtedly Would hear such music as is made Upon a country tree.

Oh, little leaves that are so dumb Against the shrieking city air, I watch you when the wind has come,-- I know what sound is there.

THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG

God had called us, and we came; Our loved Earth to ashes left; Heaven was a neighbor's house, Open to us, bereft.

Gay the lights of Heaven showed, And 'twas God who walked ahead; Yet I wept along the road, Wanting my own house instead.

Wept unseen, unheeded cried, "All you things my eyes have kissed, Fare you well! We meet no more, Lovely, lovely tattered mist!

Weary wings that rise and fall All day long above the fire!"-- Red with heat was every wall, Rough with heat was every wire--

"Fare you well, you little winds That the flying embers chase! Fare you well, you shuddering day, With your hands before your face!

And, ah, blackened by strange blight, Or to a false sun unfurled, Now forevermore goodbye, All the gardens in the world!

On the windless hills of Heaven, That I have no wish to see, White, eternal lilies stand, By a lake of ebony.

But the Earth forevermore Is a place where nothing grows,-- Dawn will come, and no bud break; Evening, and no blossom close.

Spring will come, and wander slow Over an indifferent land, Stand beside an empty creek, Hold a dead seed in her hand."

God had called us, and we came, But the blessed road I trod Was a bitter road to me, And at heart I questioned God.

"Though in Heaven," I said, "be all That the heart would most desire, Held Earth naught save souls of sinners Worth the saving from a fire?

Withered grass,--the wasted growing! Aimless ache of laden boughs!" Little things God had forgotten Called me, from my burning house.

"Though in Heaven," I said, "be all That the eye could ask to see, All the things I ever knew Are this blaze in back of me."

"Though in Heaven," I said, "be all That the ear could think to lack, All the things I ever knew Are this roaring at my back."