Little leaves opening stickily

April is poetry month, and thanks to Stefanie (So Many Books) I've discovered the glorious time-wastery that comes in the guise of poetry apps. In particular I love The Poetry Foundation mobile app, thanks to which I've discovered my new favourite poem (for April, anyway). My random "spin" gave me poems on disappointment & nature, and I found this:

Spring

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

— Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, stupid April?! Disappointing indeed. (By which I mean only that it's bloody cold, this is no spring, what does April know? Nothing, obviously.)