April 01, 1994|By Philip Larkin

Green-shadowed people sit, or walk in rings,

Their children finger the awakened grass,

Calmly a cloud stands, calmly a bird sings,

And, flashing like a dangled looking-glass,

Sun lights the balls that bounce, the dogs that bark,

The branch-arrested mist of leaf, and me,

Threading my pursed-up way across the park,

An indigestible sterility.

Spring, of all seasons most gratuitous,

Is fold of untaught flower, is race of water,

Is earth's most multiple, excited daughter;

And those she has least use for see her best,

Their paths grown craven and circuitous,

Their visions mountain-clear, their needs immodest.

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