"If only we could touch the things of this world at their center, if we could only hear tiny leaves of birch struggling toward April, then we would know."

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How many million Aprils came before I ever knew how white a cherry bough could be, a bed of squills, how blue And many a dancing April when life is done with me, will lift the blue flame of the flower and the white flame of the tree Oh burn me with your beauty then, oh hurt me tree and flower, lest in the end death try to take even this glistening hour.

— Sara Teasdale