There's T S Eliot:
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Whereas Chaucer believes it is a nice time for a trip:
Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote
The Droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe course y-ronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye, -
So priketh hem nature in hir corage:
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages -
and Robert Frost is ambivalent:
The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You´re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you´re two months back in the middle of March.
Also posted on Carnival of the Insanities.
See? Think of all the benefits of global warming! Help soften the April blow, yes?
ReplyDeleteThinkest thou such and soeth?
Here's a poem I wrote once upon a time, 'bout flowers and such.
ReplyDelete"Late Bloomer"
http://www.divinspiration.com/articles/inspirational/19981117-15.html
Steve: Forsooth, I do.
ReplyDeleteIt is the cruelest month this year. It's already ninety degrees during the day and only drops into the seventies at night.
ReplyDelete