The Late Singer

 Here it is spring again 
and I still a young man! 
I am late at my singing.
 
The sparrow with the black rain on his breast 
has been at his cadenzas for two weeks past:
What is it that is dragging at my heart? 
The grass by the back door 
is stiff with sap.
 
The old maples are opening 
their branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers.
 
A moon hangs in the blue 
in the early afternoons over the marshes.
 
I am late at my singing.

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