Red Maples

by Sara Teasdale

　　

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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?

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