Classic Poem

I shall put out my hand and raise the latch
Of this gray door, go in and let it close
On me and on the day. The bright sun patch
Here at my feet will fade, the iron rows
Of coat-hooks will be waiting, and stale air
Shall reek of steam. Although the Spring has come
Outside and clouds are high, how should winds dare
To sing a fluttering song where lips are dumb?

And I go in, crushing with tears the will
To turn and give myself to the young day;
Yet this I know — on some far April hill,
Where Spring is born, there falls a moment's gray —
Stillness on wing and flower and mounting green,
For I have hurt glad things I have not seen!