...so throughout April we'll be posting poems on the SPL blog. If you're interested in browsing our extensive poetry collection, the call numbers for American and British poetry are 811 and 821, respectively, and any of our staff can help you locate poetry of other languages (either in translation or in the original). The American Academy of Poets also has an excellent website, with sample poems and recordings of poets reading their own work (such as Gwendolyn Brooks, pictured at left). In any case, here's the first of many poems to come. I've chosen this one by Philip Larkin in honor of the official, if not actual, arrival of spring: The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief. Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too, Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still the unresting castles thresh In newborn thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh. I realize that with the chilly gray weather a poem about spring may seem like a callous taunt--but what did you expect? April is the cruelest month.