Spring Nightfall
APRIL is sad, as if the end she knew.
The maple’s misty red, the willow’s gold
Face-deep in nimble water, seem to hold
In hope’s own weather their autumnal hue.
There is no wind, no star, no sense of dew,
But the thin vapors gird the mountain old,
And the moon, risen before the west is cold,
Pale with compassion slopes into the blue.