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April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.
-T. S. Eliot
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April Is The Cruelest Month, Breeding Lilacs

T. S. Eliot
April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.
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Memories Spring Rain

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Lilacs, false blue, white, purple, colour of lilac, your great puffs of flowers are everywhere in this my new england ... lilacs in dooryards holding quiet conversation with an early moon; lilacs watching a deserted house; ... lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom, you are everywhere.
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And what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? who is there in the rain’s million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, september rain, september rain, so dark and soft? who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?
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Budapest in late may is a city of lilacs. the sweet, languid, rather sleepy smell of lilacs wafts everywhere. and it is a city of lovers, many of them quite middle-aged. walking with their arms around each other, embracing and kissing on park benches. a sensuousness very much bound up (it seems to me) with the heady ubiquitous smell of lilacs.
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Let the rain kiss you. let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. let the rain sing you a lullaby. the rain makes still pools on the sidewalk. the rain makes running pools in the gutter. the rain plays a little sellp-song on our roof at night- and i love the rain.
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Peter was dull; he was at first dull; - oh, so dull - so very dull! whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed - still with his dulness was he cursed - dull -beyond all conception - dull.
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April is the cruelest month, t.s. eliot wrote, by which i think he meant (among other things) that springtime makes people crazy. we expect too much, the world burgeons with promises it can't keep, all passion is really a setup, and we're doomed to get our hearts broken yet again. i agree, and would further add: who cares? every spring i go out there anyway, around the bend, unconditionally. ... come the end of the dark days, i am more than joyful. i'm nuts.
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