Spring by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Spring

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?

Beauty is not enough.

You can no longer quiet me with the redness

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.

But what does that signify?

Not only under ground are the brains of men

Eaten by maggots.

Life in itself

Is nothing,

An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,

April

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Maybe you have not had this experience, but I have (and, apparently, so did Millay): a happy time has come--spring, holidays, summer vacation, etc.--and I am still stuck grieving. It makes all that surrounding joy even more awful.

Millay starts right off with her attitude, demanding from April itself as to why it has returned. (If you have read my commentary for a while, you know I am a sucker for poems that begin with questions. And questioning an inanimate object that cannot reply? Swoon!)

Every line in this poem keeps up this anger at April, at its dismal failure for returning with spring and being found wanting.

We are told by the speaker that spring's beauty is not enough, its flowers are not enough, and even the warmth is too much.

We are teased with the line, "I know what I know." This tells us there is a reason for the speaker's attitude. And although we are never told outright, we are given clues, starting with the smell of the earth, which the speaker admits is good because wherever she is, there is no death. Then another question and more description:

But what does that signify?

Not only under ground are the brains of men

Eaten by maggots.

Someone has died. Is this a specific person or was this poem written in response to WWI (it was published in 1921)? I lean towards the war, since the next line tells us that "life . . . is nothing" (which could also be a specific death in the war--it has been a very long time since I read her biography),but it does not really matter. The speaker sees the month/season of rebirth and renewal as a time of death.

The sorrow mixed with anger continues with the poem's ending:

April

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

A clueless person who won't be quiet? Flowers being tossed? This is not a poem celebrating spring; it is a poem with a speaker for whom April dredges up memories of someone who has died in April. And it will happen every year.

I hope your April/everyone's April is less devastating!