Red Maples

In the last year I have learned

How few men are worth my trust;

I have seen the friend I loved

Struck by death into the dust,

And fears I never knew before

Have knocked and knocked upon my door —

“I shall hope little and ask for less,”

I said, “There is no happiness.”

I have grown wise at last — but how

Can I hide the gleam on the willow-bough,

Or keep the fragrance out of the rain

Now that April is here again?

When maples stand in a haze of fire

What can I say to the old desire,

What shall I do with the joy in me

That is born out of agony?