Spring fills the air today; with different sound
The whistles blow, out in the foggy bay;
There is a thawing in the sodden ground;
And flowers whose birth is still two months away
Send down the air premonitory ghosts
Of what shall be their odors. As we lie
Here in the dusk of silence, all things lost
Seem phantoms of a winter soon to die.
Nothing is dead that had the power to live;
Nothing can end except what should not be;
Beauty, that far-sought April fugitive,
Comes home to those who trust felicity;
Moments that have the whole life to give
Pause thus by lovers’ couches, tenderly.