When April weeps with slow and silver rain,
And skies wear gray like mourning for the sun,
The blossoms shiver on the windowpane,
Their fragile joy cut short before begun.

The meadow’s green, but bruised beneath the cloud,
The birdsong comes in half-remembered phrases,
And every breeze, once gentle, now too loud—
A damp that clings and darkens as it grazes.

Yet in this gloom, the hidden roots drink deep,
And something soft prepares to break the ground;
The heart, though tired, learns what it cannot keep—
That light must lose to find where it is found.

So let the cold spring drag its heavy hours;
The dimmest day still feeds the coming flowers.