The first of April! yet November's haze Hangs on the wood, and blurs the hill's blue tip: The light of noon rests wanly on the strip Of sandy road, recalling leaf-laid ways, Shades stilled in death, and tender twilight days Ere Winter lifts the wind-trump to his lip. No moss is shyly seen a tuft to raise, Nor under grass a gold-eyed flower to dip; Nor sound is breathed, but haply the south west Faint rippling in the brushes of the pine, Or of the shrunken leaf dry-fluttering. Compact the village lies, a whitened line Gathered in smoke. What holds this brooding rest? Is it dead Autumn, or the dreaming Spring? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOHN ERICSSON DAY MEMORIAL, 1918 by CARL SANDBURG VIGNETTES OVERSEAS: 1. OFF GIBRALTAR by SARA TEASDALE THE EXILE TO HIS WIFE by JOSEPH BRENAN FOUND WANTING by EMILY DICKINSON WHAT MY LOVER SAID by HOMER GREENE THE NAME OF JESUS by JOHN NEWTON |