National poetry month

Truly I am not myself, if I let National Poetry Month slip by. So here's a poem, and it's an April sort of poem, too, by Robert Frost:

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.