The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
   The maddest noise that grows, –
The birds, they make it in the spring,
   At night’s delicious close,

Between the March and April line –

   That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
   Almost too heavenly near.

It makes us think of all the dead

   That sauntered with us here,
By separation’s sorcery
   Made cruelly more dear.

It makes us think of what we had,
   And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those siren throats
   Would go and sing no more.

An ear can break a human heart
   As quickly as a spear.
We wish the ear had not a heart
   So dangerously near.