A Pastitsio for Beth

What?
April is the cruelest mistress,
Her eyes are nothing
Like the distance in flight
Above pipes from black hearted water.
No, I will go alone.
Openly, yes, let us consider the
Farmer who makes his way down
Thick drops whispering around me
Hemmed in by an untenable
Sadness, thinking of you.
As virtuous poets pass mildly away
Look at the stars! Look up at
My Beloved.
Blest spirit.