Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. Comes ...

For a week of poetry about the month of April — which began on Monday with the General Prologue to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and ends on Friday with the first part of T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land” — ...