O mind, beset by music never for a moment quiet, –
The wind at the flue, the wind strumming the shutter;
The soft, antiphonal speech of the doubled brook, never for a
      moment quiet;
The rush of the rain against the glass, his voice in the eaves-
      gutter!

Where shall I lay you to sleep, and the robins be quiet?
Lay you to sleep – and the frogs be silent in the marsh?
Crashes the sleet from the bough and the bough sighs upward,
      never for a moment quiet.
April is upon us, pitiless and young and harsh.

O April, full of blood, full of breath, have pity upon us!
Pale, where the winter like a stone has been lifted away, we
      emerge like yellow grass.
Be for a moment quiet, buffet us not, have pity upon us,
Till the green come back into the vein, till the giddiness pass.

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