APRIL

By Louis Ginsberg

EVEN when all my body sleeps,

I shall remember yet

The wistfulness that April keeps,

When boughs at dusk are wet.

The haunted twilight on the lane;

The far-off cricket’s croon;

And beautiful and washed by rain,

The mellow rounded moon!

So, underneath the waving grass,

And underneath the dew,

April, whenever you will pass,

My dust will dream of you!