Strange that this body in its lifted
state
Of independent will
and power and lust,
Should still attest that kinship,
dimmed of late,
Its ancient, honoured brotherhood with dust;
So that when Spring is quickening
in the clay,
Stirring dumb particles
the way she fares,
This foolish flesh is no less moved
than they,
To sweet, unreasoned
happiness, like theirs.
Not seed and soil alone, but heart
and mind
Are somehow swayed,
till sober, earnest men,
In quick renewal with their dusty
kind,
Grow foolish-fond, like
lads at play again....
So April, stirring blindly through
the earth,
Can move us to a blind, unthinking
mirth.