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.


I read this poem this morning and noted mainly its incongruity with most other poems on the subject of Spring, including my own. In fact, the sentiment seems to align more closely with the thoughts of Camus on the heartbreak and meaninglessness of beauty. Perhaps I’m reading her wrong but I’ve felt the dearth of significance in things that should stir joy, even worship.