O World, I Cannot Hold Thee Close

Youth, Have No Pity; Leave No Farthing Here For Age To Invest In Compromise And Fear.

Spring 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.

Ah! Up Then From The Ground Sprang I And Hailed The Earth With Such A Cry As Is Not Heard Save From A Man Who Has Been Dead, And Lives Again. About The Trees My Arms I Wound; Like One Gone Mad I Hugged The Ground; I Raised My Quivering Arms On High; I Laughed And Laughed Into The Sky.

Heap Not On This Mound Roses That She Loved So Well; Why Bewilder Her With Roses That She Cannot See Or Smell.

Pour Away Despair And Rinse The Cup. Eat Happiness Like Bread.