The ones that disappeared are back
The Phebe and the crow
Precisely as in March is heard
The curtness of the Jay –
Be this an Autumn or a Spring
My wisdom loses way
One side of me the nuts are ripe
The other side is May.
The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
The maddest noise that grows, –
The birds, they make it in the spring,
At night’s delicious close,
Between the March and April line –
That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
Almost too heavenly near.
It makes us think of all the dead
That sauntered with us here,
By separation’s sorcery
Made cruelly more dear.
It makes us think of what we had,
And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those siren throats
Would go and sing no more.
An ear can break a human heart
As quickly as a spear.
We wish the ear had not a heart
So dangerously near.