Unenchanted April

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Poets used to love springtime. Remember Chaucer?:

 

 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye . . .       Or how about some Shakespeare?     It was a lover and his lass,   With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,   That o'er the green corn-field did pass,   In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,   When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.       Eh.       I myself do not much like the spring. It can be very pretty, granted, and I do think crocuses and daffodils are very nice. But there’s something a little – I don’t know – relentless about it. And I notice that, over the past hundred years, a few poets seem to be agreeing with me.       How about that ol’ T. S. Eliot?:       April is the cruellest month, breeding   Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing   Memory and desire, stirring   Dull roots with spring rain.         But my personal favorite is New England’s own Edna St. Vincent Millay:       To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.       I love those last few lines.       Happy springtime, everyone!