Wise

An apple orchard smells like wine;

A succory flower is blue;

Until Grief touched these eyes of mine,

Such things I never knew.

And now indeed I know so

Why one would like to

When spouts are full of April rain—Such lonely folk go by!

So wise, so wise—that my tears

Each breaking of the dawn;

That I do long to tell you all—But you are dead and gone.