Sonnet at the End of April

As the sun buries April in the day
and birds at dusk bicker harmoniously,
I feel it too: something has fled from me
and something stays: it is the month of May
that in our friendship starts: the certainty
of finding, in a dark wood, a bright-dust ray –
we see it there, and talk. There has gone away
the flame-quick love to which we were bound to agree.

Goodbye, blind meteor month! for so it seemed
to us who were blind lovers of the Spring.
But the air touches us awakening;
we begin the know the ecstasy half-dreamed:

through a fine May wood we walk in a bird-arched morning,
and our joined hands touch the ray and the dust that gleamed.

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