There is not any ancient haunt of prophecy Nor any old chimaera of the grave, Neither the golden underground, nor isle Melodious, where spirits gat them home, Nor visionary South, nor cloudy palm Remote on Heaven's hill, that will endure As April's green endures. Which in a matter of two hot days it has done, just beating the calendar, redeeming New England in a calvinist no-credit-to-YOU sort of way, once again, as in some years it has not. No leaves on the quince, no buds on the lilac, yesterday... read more
