IN the last year I have learned <br />How few men are worth my trust; <br />I have seen the friend I loved <br />Struck by death into the dust, <br />And fears I never knew before <br />Have knocked and knocked upon my door— <br />'I shall hope little and ask for less,' <br />I said, 'There is no happiness.' <br />I have grown wise at last—but how <br />Can I hide the gleam on the willow-bough, <br />Or keep the fragrance out of the rain <br />Now that April is here again? <br />When maples stand in a haze of fire <br />What can I say to the old desire, <br />What shall I do with the joy in me <br />That is born out of agony?<br /><br />Sara Teasdale<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/red-maples-2/
