Red Maples

IN the last year I have learned How few men are worth my trust; I have seen the friend I loved Struck by death into the dust, And fears I never knew before Have knocked and knocked upon my door— 'I shall hope little and ask for less,' I said, 'There is no happiness.' I have grown wise at last—but how Can I hide the gleam on the willow-bough, Or keep the fragrance out of the rain Now that April is here again? When maples stand in a haze of fire What can I say to the old desire, What shall I do with the joy in me That is born out of agony?