Don’t go, April, now that you
Are to warm sun and cool winds inclined—
Yet I know you will.
You’re measured by days
And cannot stop for my sad mind
Or linger here because I praise.
You are measured by what is lost:
All the years that are no more
And other Aprils gone. So if now
Winter’s nothing is your being,
It’s best I leave my thoughts of you,
Loyal only to time fleeing.
Who wants to be left behind?
Our one escape from pain
Is winter passing,
Not April, or this terrible going in the mind—
Winter is always coming and April
Hurries towards us, blind.