IN MEMORY OF SWINBURNE

April from shore to shore, from sea to sea,

April in heaven and on the springing spray

Buoyant with birds that sing to welcome May

And April in those eyes that mourn for thee:

“This is my singing month; my hawthorn tree

Burgeons once more,” we seemed to hear thee say,

“This is my singing month: my fingers stray

Over the lute. What shall the music be?”

And April answered with too great a song

For mortal lips to sing or hearts to hear,

Heard only of that high invisible throng

For whom thy song makes April all the year!

“My singing month, what bringest thou?” Her breath

Swooned with all music, and she answered — “Death.”