The shrill wind scatters the bloom
of the almond trees
but under the bark of the shivering poplars
the sap rises
and on the dark twigs of the planes
buds swell.
Out in the country
along soggy banks of ditches
among busy sprouting grass
there are dandelions.
Under the asphalt
under the clamorous paving-stones
the earth heaves and stirs
and all the blind live things
expand and writhe.
Only the dead
lie still in their graves,
stiff, heiratic,
only the changeless dead
lie without stirring.
Spring is not a good time
for the dead.
_Battery Park_