A poem for Sunday

It's not April yet, but it seems we're all gearing up for it, so here's a Springtime poem by Sylvia Townsend Warner.

In April

I am come to the threshold of spring
Where there will be nothing
To stand between me and the smite
Of the martin's scooping flight,
Between me and the halloo
Of the first cuckoo.
'As you hear the first cuckoo,
So you will be all summer through.'
This year I shall hear it naked and alone;
And lengthening days and strengthening sun will show
My my solitary shadow,
My cypressed shadow — but no,
My Love, I was not alone; in my mind I was talking to oyu
When I heard the first cuckoo,
And gentle as thistledown his call was blown.
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