Want to track your favorites? Reopen or create a unique username. No personal details are required!
April this year, not otherwise
Than April of a year ago,
Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.
There rings a hammering all day,
And shingles lie about the doors;
In orchards near and far away
The grey woodpecker taps and bores;
And men are merry at their chores,
And children earnest at their play.
The larger streams run still and deep,
Noisy and swift the small brooks run
Among the mullein stalks the sheep
Go up the hillside in the sun,
Pensively,—only you are gone,
You that alone I cared to keep.
The poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay occupies a unique position in American literary history—bridging classical forms with modernist sensibilities while giving voice to the evolving consciousness of early 20th century America. "Song of a Second April," published in Millay's 1921 collection Second April, exemplifies her remarkable ability to infuse traditional poetic structures with profound emotional complexity. This poem, deceptive in its apparent simplicity, unfolds as a meditation on grief, memory, and the indifferent persistence of natural cycles against human loss.
Millay wrote "Song of a Second April" during a transformative period in American cultural and literary history. The poem emerged in the aftermath of World War I, when American society was grappling with unprecedented loss while simultaneously experiencing the social upheavals of the early 1920s. Born in 1892 in Rockland, Maine, Millay had risen to prominence with the publication of "Renascence" in 1912 and her first collection, A Few Figs from Thistles (1920), which established her reputation as a voice of female independence and sexual liberation.
The early 1920s marked a critical juncture in American poetry. The modernist movement was challenging traditional forms and assumptions, while poets like Robert Frost were demonstrating how traditional structures could accommodate modern sensibilities. Millay's work occupies an interesting middle ground in this landscape—formally conservative but thematically progressive. While contemporaries like T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound were dismantling poetic conventions, Millay continued to work within traditional structures of rhyme and meter, yet infused them with a distinctly modern psychological complexity and emotional directness.
Second April, the collection containing this poem, was published during Millay's artistic ascendancy. She would go on to win the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923 for The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver, becoming the third woman to receive this honor. The collection reflects Millay's ongoing engagement with themes of nature, love, and mortality that would characterize much of her work.
"Song of a Second April" consists of three sestets (six-line stanzas) with a consistent ABABCC rhyme pattern. This structure creates a musical quality appropriate to the poem's title as a "song." The regularity of the form creates an interesting tension with the emotional content—as if the speaker is attempting to contain overwhelming grief within ordered boundaries.
Millay employs iambic tetrameter throughout most of the poem, creating a rhythm that mimics natural speech while maintaining a lyrical quality. This metrical choice reflects Millay's characteristic blend of formal craft and conversational directness. The consistent rhythm also evokes the cyclical, predictable return of seasons that forms the poem's central metaphor.
The poem's central tension revolves around what remains unchanged and what has been irrevocably lost. The opening lines establish this framework:
April this year, not otherwise
Than April of a year ago,
This declaration of sameness immediately introduces the concept of time's cyclical nature. The natural world continues its patterns regardless of human experience—the seasons return, flowers bloom, and life persists. Throughout the poem, Millay catalogues these continuities with vivid sensory details: "whispers," "sighs," "dazzling mud," "dingy snow," and "hepaticas" that have returned as reliably as "butterflies."
The second stanza expands this inventory of continuity, moving from natural elements to human activities. "There rings a hammering all day," Millay writes, depicting a world of ongoing industry and routine. Men remain "merry at their chores" and children "earnest at their play." The world proceeds with its business, seemingly unchanged.
The final stanza continues this pattern of observation, noting how "larger streams run still and deep" while "small brooks run" with noisy swiftness. The natural order maintains its characteristic behaviors: sheep climb hillsides "in the sun," everything following its prescribed course.
Yet against this backdrop of continuity, the poem builds toward its devastating final revelation: "only you are gone, / You that alone I cared to keep." The entirety of the preceding descriptions serves to heighten this contrast—everything continues as before except for the absence of the one person who mattered most to the speaker. The final line delivers the poem's emotional core with stark simplicity, emphasizing that amid all that persists, what has been lost was all that truly mattered.
April holds particular significance in literary tradition, perhaps most famously captured in T.S. Eliot's declaration that "April is the cruellest month" in "The Waste Land" (published in 1922, just a year after Millay's collection). Like Eliot, Millay recognizes the potential cruelty of spring's renewal when juxtaposed with human grief. The title itself—"Song of a Second April"—carries multiple resonances. It refers literally to the second April since some unspecified loss, but it also suggests a diminished experience, an April that can never match the significance of the first because it arrives after the beloved's departure.
April traditionally symbolizes renewal, rebirth, and promise—the end of winter's death and the beginning of new life. In Millay's poem, this conventional symbolism is subverted. The season's return only emphasizes what cannot return. Spring's regenerative power, which extends to hepaticas and butterflies, does not extend to human loss. This creates a profound irony: the season most associated with new beginnings serves instead as a painful reminder of what has been permanently lost.
The poem's temporal structure reinforces this paradox. April "this year" is compared to "April of a year ago," establishing a before-and-after framework that underscores how time simultaneously changes everything and nothing. Nature's cycles continue unaltered while the speaker's emotional landscape has been irrevocably transformed.
Millay excels at creating vivid sensory impressions that transcend mere description to convey emotional states. The poem begins with auditory images—"whispers" and "sighs"—that subtly anthropomorphize the season, suggesting both communication and lament. These sounds might be wind through new leaves or birds returning, but they evoke human emotional expressions.
Visual contrasts appear immediately afterward in the "dazzling mud and dingy snow"—a deliberately oxymoronic pairing that captures spring's transitional nature. This juxtaposition of brilliance and dinginess might also reflect the speaker's ambivalent emotional state, where moments of beauty coexist with persistent grief.
The second stanza shifts to more active, kinetic imagery with "hammering all day" and the woodpecker that "taps and bores." These percussive sounds create a rhythmic backdrop that contrasts with the more delicate "whispers" and "sighs" of the opening stanza. The progression suggests increasing vitality as spring advances, yet this vitality only heightens the speaker's sense of loss.
Water imagery dominates the final stanza, with streams running "still and deep" while small brooks remain "noisy and swift." This contrast between depth and surface, stillness and movement, may reflect different aspects of grief—its quiet depths and its more visible expressions. The sheep moving "pensively" up the hillside introduce the poem's only explicit reference to a mental or emotional state, preparing the reader for the final revelation of the speaker's grief.
One of the poem's most powerful techniques is its narrative misdirection. For most of its length, "Song of a Second April" reads as a nature poem cataloging spring's familiar features. The mention of "you" in the first stanza ("Hepaticas that pleased you so") seems initially just a passing reference, perhaps to a companion who appreciated these flowers. Only in the final lines does the poem reveal itself as an elegy, forcing readers to reconsider everything that came before in light of the disclosed loss.
This technique reflects the experience of grief itself, where the external world continues normally while the bereaved person's internal reality has been fundamentally altered. The shocking simplicity of "only you are gone" arrives with greater impact because of this delayed revelation. The poem's structure mimics the psychological experience of momentarily forgetting a loss, only to have reality crash back with renewed force.
Millay achieves emotional universality through strategic ambiguity. The poem never specifies who has been lost—a lover, friend, family member, or child could all be the absent "you." Similarly, the cause of absence remains unstated; death, departure, or estrangement could all explain the person being "gone." This ambiguity allows readers to project their own experiences of loss onto the poem.
Paradoxically, this ambiguity coexists with precise, concrete details about the natural world—specific flowers (hepaticas), birds (woodpeckers), plants (mullein stalks), and activities that ground the poem in tangible reality. This balance between specific imagery and unspecified relationships creates a poem that feels simultaneously personal and universal.
Millay's work often engages with women's experiences in ways that challenged conventional expectations. While "Song of a Second April" doesn't explicitly address gender, it presents grief through a lens that resists sentimentality or excessive emotional display. The speaker observes and records with clear-eyed precision, acknowledging loss without surrendering to it entirely.
This approach reflects Millay's broader poetic project of claiming emotional autonomy for women. In an era when female poets were often expected to demonstrate either proper restraint or acceptable forms of feminine sentiment, Millay crafted a poetic voice that acknowledged powerful emotions while maintaining intellectual clarity. Her speaker experiences profound grief but retains the capacity for detailed observation and articulate expression.
The poem's conclusion—"You that alone I cared to keep"—asserts the speaker's right to determine what matters most. This declaration of autonomous valuation represents a quiet but definitive claim to emotional self-determination that aligns with Millay's reputation as a poet who helped redefine expectations for women's expression in modern American poetry.
Another significant tension in the poem exists between communal and individual experience. The second stanza portrays a community going about its business—men working, children playing, buildings being constructed or repaired. This collective activity contrasts with the speaker's isolated grief. While society continues its rhythms, the individual experiences a profound discontinuity.
This juxtaposition reflects the often solitary nature of grief in modern society, where mourning is increasingly privatized rather than communally recognized. The hammering and construction—symbols of progress and continuity—proceed without acknowledgment of the speaker's loss. The sheep move "pensively," but the human community shows no such reflection.
Millay's work demonstrates a complex relationship with poetic tradition. Her formal choices—regular meter, consistent rhyme schemes, traditional stanzaic patterns—connect her to earlier generations of poets, particularly the Romantics and Victorians. Her attention to natural imagery and seasonal cycles evokes Wordsworth, Keats, and other Romantic poets who found emotional correlatives in natural phenomena.
Yet Millay's directness, her willingness to confront difficult emotions without excessive ornamentation, aligns her with modernist values of precision and emotional honesty. "Song of a Second April" achieves its power through understatement rather than elaborate metaphor or heightened language. The poem's concluding lines deliver emotional truth with unadorned simplicity: "only you are gone, / You that alone I cared to keep."
This blending of traditional forms with modern sensibilities characterizes much of Millay's work and helps explain her unique position in American poetry. While never as formally experimental as contemporaries like E.E. Cummings or Wallace Stevens, she infused conventional structures with a distinctly modern psychological complexity and emotional directness.
Beyond its emotional power, "Song of a Second April" engages with profound philosophical questions about time, memory, and human meaning-making. The poem presents what philosopher Henri Bergson might recognize as the distinction between "clock time" and "lived time"—between the objective progression of days and seasons and the subjective experience of temporality altered by emotion.
The cyclical return of April represents clock time—predictable, measurable, undifferentiated. One April follows another in seemingly perfect repetition. Yet lived time, the speaker's subjective experience, has been fundamentally altered by loss. Though the calendar indicates repetition, lived experience contains an unbridgeable gap between "April this year" and "April of a year ago."
This tension raises questions about how humans create meaning in a universe characterized by both cyclical patterns and irreversible change. The natural world demonstrates continuity and renewal, yet human experience includes permanent losses that no seasonal return can restore. The poem suggests that meaning derives not from nature's cycles but from human connections—connections whose severing constitutes an irreparable break in our experience of time itself.
While biographical readings must always be approached cautiously, "Song of a Second April" resonates with known elements of Millay's life. By the time this collection was published in 1921, Millay had experienced significant personal losses. Her father had abandoned the family when she was young, and she had navigated complex romantic relationships throughout her early adulthood.
More broadly, Millay belonged to a generation profoundly affected by World War I and the 1918 influenza pandemic, both of which caused unprecedented loss of life. The poem's understated grief might reflect not just personal experience but a collective mourning that characterized the early 1920s.
Millay's own life embodied the tensions present in the poem. She maintained passionate attachments while fiercely guarding her independence, experienced intense emotions while retaining intellectual clarity, and worked within traditional forms while expressing modern sensibilities. These balanced oppositions find expression in a poem that acknowledges devastating loss without surrendering to despair.
Nearly a century after its publication, "Song of a Second April" retains its emotional impact because it captures experiences that transcend its specific historical moment. The dissonance between natural renewal and human grief, between public continuity and private loss, between what changes and what persists—these tensions remain fundamental to human experience.
The poem speaks with particular resonance to modern readers accustomed to maintaining public performances of normalcy while processing private grief. In a society that often lacks formal rituals for mourning, Millay's speaker offers a model of acknowledgment without performative display—recognizing loss without being defined by it.
Additionally, as environmental concerns become increasingly urgent, the poem's attention to natural cycles takes on new significance. Millay's detailed observations of seasonal changes remind readers of what remains constant in nature while highlighting how human experience intersects with these larger patterns.
"Song of a Second April" achieves remarkable emotional depth through deceptively simple means. Its power derives not from elaborate metaphors or formal experimentation but from precision, understatement, and structural ingenuity. By juxtaposing the persistent cycles of nature and human activity against the finality of personal loss, Millay creates a tension that remains unresolved—as grief itself often remains unresolved.
The poem's enduring achievement lies in its ability to transform particular observations into universal experience, using the specific details of one April to illuminate the complex relationship between time, memory, loss, and continuity that characterizes human consciousness. In eighteen short lines, Millay captures both the world's indifferent persistence and the individual's capacity to invest certain relationships with meaning that transcends natural cycles.
Ultimately, "Song of a Second April" demonstrates why Millay remains significant to American poetry. Neither fully traditional nor radically experimental, she created works that honor formal craft while speaking with modern directness about authentic emotional experience. This particular poem stands as a masterpiece of understatement that articulates, with devastating precision, how profoundly a single absence can transform an otherwise unchanged world.
This text was generated by AI and is for reference only. Learn more