By Louis Ginsberg
EVEN when all my body sleeps,
I shall remember yet
The wistfulness that April keeps,
When boughs at dusk are wet.
The haunted twilight on the lane;
The far-off cricket’s croon;
And beautiful and washed by rain,
The mellow rounded moon!
So, underneath the waving grass,
And underneath the dew,
April, whenever you will pass,
My dust will dream of you!