The Thrush

When Winter's ahead,

What can you read in November

That you read in April

When Winter's dead?

 

I hear the thrush, and I see

Him alone at the end of the lane

Near the bare poplar's tip,

Singing continuously.

 

Is it more that you know

Than that, even as in April,

So in November,

Winter is gone that must go?

 

Or is all your lore

Not to call November November,

And April April,

And Winter Winter—no more?

 

But I know the months all,

And their sweet names, April,

May and June and October,

As you call and call

 

I must remember

What died into April

And consider what will be born

Of a fair November;

 

And April I love for what

It was born of, and November

For what it will die in,

What they are and what they are not,

 

While you love what is kind,

What you can sing in

And love and forget in

All that's ahead and behind.