A Poem by William Carlos Williams: "The Widow's Lament in Springtime"

I've had WCW on my mind for days now, so today is his day to shine.  I should have written my dissertation on him, rather than his old nemesis, T. S. Eliot.  His crazy inappropriateness is closer to my own than TSE's.  The poem I've chosen, however, is not inappropriate -- just sad, and beautiful, and has to do with the spring.  And it has always given me shivers.

The Widow's Lament in Springtime

Sorrow is my own yard
where the  new grass
flames as it has flamed
often before but not
with the cold fire
that closes round me this year.
Thirtyfive years
I lived with my husband.
The plumtree is white today
with masses of flowers.
Masses of flowers
load the cherry branches
and color some bushes
yellow and some red
but the grief in my heart
is stronger than they
for though they were my joy
formerly, today I notice them
and turn away forgetting.
Today my son told me
that in the meadows,
at the edge of the heavy woods
in the distance, he saw
trees of white flowers.
I feel I would like
to go there
and fall into those flowers
and sink into the marsh near them.

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year. Thirtyfive years I lived with my husband. The plumtree is white today with masses of flowers. Masses of flowers load the cherry branches and color some bushes yellow and some red but the grief in my heart is stronger than they for though they were my joy formerly, today I notice them and turn away forgetting. Today my son told me that in the meadows, at the edge of the heavy woods in the distance, he saw trees of white flowers. I feel that I would like to go there and fall into those flowers and sink into the marsh near them. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21674#sthash.jf2oPqUe.dpuf

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year. Thirtyfive years I lived with my husband. The plumtree is white today with masses of flowers. Masses of flowers load the cherry branches and color some bushes yellow and some red but the grief in my heart is stronger than they for though they were my joy formerly, today I notice them and turn away forgetting. Today my son told me that in the meadows, at the edge of the heavy woods in the distance, he saw trees of white flowers. I feel that I would like to go there and fall into those flowers and sink into the marsh near them. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21674#sthash.jf2oPqUe.dpuf

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year. Thirtyfive years I lived with my husband. The plumtree is white today with masses of flowers. Masses of flowers load the cherry branches and color some bushes yellow and some red but the grief in my heart is stronger than they for though they were my joy formerly, today I notice them and turn away forgetting. Today my son told me that in the meadows, at the edge of the heavy woods in the distance, he saw trees of white flowers. I feel that I would like to go there and fall into those flowers and sink into the marsh near them. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21674#sthash.jf2oPqUe.dpuf