La Primavera / The Spring

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

[…]

That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?'

Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?'

Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,

'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!'

You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'

THE WASTE LAND - T.S. ELIOT

(PRIMAVERA, Botticelli)