"April is the cruellest month . . ." begins the first line of The Waste Land, the signature modernist poem by T.S. Eliot.
Snow, snow go away!
Come again some other day
Next December please!
Enough already! Bikes are back on the porch :-(
THE roofs are shining from the rain.
The sparrows tritter as they fly,
And with a windy April grace
The little clouds go by.
Yet the back-yards are bare and brown
With only one unchanging tree–
I could not be so sure of Spring
Save that it sings in me.