Wise

An apple orchard smells like wine;
A succory flower is blue;
Until Grief touched these eyes of mine,
Such things I never knew.

And now indeed I know so plain
Why one would like to cry
When spouts are full of April rain —
Such lonely folk go by!

So wise, so wise — that my tears fall
Each breaking of the dawn;
That I do long to tell you all —
But you are dead and gone.