Chaucer began his masterwork by citing the promise of renewal offered by April...
Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour
Whereas T. S. Eliot began
his by accusing April of false hopes...
April is the cruelest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.
Nevertheless, April is National Poetry month. Spring has been the inspiration for countless poems, including this one by Ireland's Seamus Heaney:
Rite of Spring
So winter closed its fist
And got it stuck in the pump.
The plunger froze up a lump
In its throat, ice founding itself
Upon iron. The handle
Paralysed at an angle.
Then the twisting of wheat straw
into ropes, lapping them tight
Round stem and snout, then a light
That sent the pump up in a flame
It cooled, we lifted her latch,
Her entrance was wet, and she came.
