sunday april poem

april

the roofs are shining from the rain.

the sparrows tritter as they fly,

and with a windy april grace

the little clouds go by.

yet the back-yards are bare and brown

with only one unchanging tree--

i could not be so sure of spring

save that it sings in me.

by sarah teasdale (1884-1933)

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i posted about charlotte's dance performance here.