In Which Muck Is Mucked

We know that April's cruel, but could it crush
Our spirits so by any other means
Than snow that falls and turns, right off, to slush
And stays that way, at least until the freeze
At nightfall comes? The daffodils poke from
The sluggish soil, but soon do wear a coat
Of icy muck; would turn my fingers numb
To try to free them from it, and my throat
Already burns; a springtime cold is mine.
I peer outside while coughing, but I must
Remind myself that soon all will be fine,
And all this moisture will keep down the dust.
And when all of you others say good-bye
To blossoms, in the future mine still lie.