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.
April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine.
Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!
My candle burns at both ends
The longest absence is less perilous to love than the terrible trials of incessant proximity.