The bluebells were never so blue,
and the grass was never so green,
as the dusk of the dying dayglow
in the April that might have been.

The sky was never so clear,
nor the call of the birds so pure,
as the shining joy of the springtime
in the love that did not endure.

Spring’s flowers are always brilliant,
the birds in full throated song,
and the thrusting buds of the springtime
are everywhere, bright and strong.

The birdsong’s a passing pleasure
and he smiles at the lambs at play,
but he says to himself, life can never
exceed what it was that day.

He chews on the taste of memory
where, always, Never forgets
that the bittersweet joy of springtime
wants this year, and next, and next.