A couple of weeks ago, Parasputin asked how I maintained my optimism. As an observation it was particularly unsettling- me and optimism? Really? Yet, I feel any semblance of glass-half-full spirit I may have had to be flagging. It’s disillusionment, I think. How else could I resonate with this poem?
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