APRIL IS THE CRUELEST MONTH, the poet said;
Hope that out of winter’s waste would grow
Something unbroken, something less dead
O! The sky is full of pictures here
In some what we are, we well know
In others some woman or some man
Is us; some with courage, some with fear
Whom the sky is always brighter than;
A pastiche of tongues like spring flowers
Like lilies and foolish daffodils;
We consult our books, but in some hours
We will have to write them instead.
Each of us then his hours fills
Bent over strange texts, ours and theirs
And with each change building dread;
But we say, “He who wins is he who dares“;
A THUNDER IN THE CITY, city without a name
Loves lost and wasted, springs fast unwound
In uncountable clocks measuring the same
Is it the same spring they measure–?
The same storm, the same fog we found
The same lilies sprung from dead kings
Which wilt and yield us no treasure–
Is it the same time every story brings?
It is a dreaming before death, where all
Is present like the congregation came
To see the bishop, that call from call
Might gather the fractured images here
And ask them each what is their name
And their confession, but being dead
Mute like spring flowers they appear–
“April is the cruelest month,” the poet said.