Explore "Spring" by Edna St. Vincent Millay on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.