Poling,+Ryan

Edna St. Vincent Millay

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.



MARIPOSA

Butterflies are white and blue In this field we wander through. Suffer me to take your hand. Death comes in a day or two.

All the things we ever knew Will be ashes in that hour, Mark the transient butterfly, How he hangs upon the flower.

Suffer me to take your hand. Suffer me to cherish you Till the dawn is in the sky. Whether I be false or true, Death comes in a day or two.