Classic Poem

O this is not spring but in me
there is a murmuring of new things
This is the time of a dark winter in the heart
but in me are green traitors

The dead lie apart with their throats laid full with sorrow
And the blood of the living moves slow in the cold
There is no one
To play the street like a flute with me
For a return on the old footsteps

They say write to me how the snow falls this winter
And if the horse sets out well on the road
And I answer
This year the blood cannot lie quiet
And the sun goes swift, swift through the hair