The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
Millay calls out the futility of April and its false promise, and ends it with words that call up Macbeth’s fury at the pointlessness of life itself: 
 it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing." 
 In Millay’s telling, the idiot’s tale may start with flowers, but the babbling has a fury all its own, and the end is just as deadly.
Spring