'twill not be spring

A poem for spring by my grandmother. Let's pretend I posted it in April. Also, let's pretend I can write even half as beautifully as she.
When April comes and you are far away,--
Bitter-sweet April with her smiles and tears--
When meadows freshened by their winter's sleep
And gently falling rain, awake to find
Blue violets lift shy heads among the grass;
When hardy crocus flaunts its gayest hues
Along the paths we loved; arbutus clings
Around our rock up on the farthest hill--
That rock we found last Spring when you were here--
When mad rain swoops across the sky
And leads a trail of sun behind;
When over all, the soft, sweet breath of Spring
Lies, bringing old memories of you--
My dear, my dear, where April comes to me
With you not here to share--'twill not be Spring!