The Waste Land

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in shock, and we marched away, Knowing our destinies, the ancient gods of the fields Are dead, dead from veils and horizons.

But winter’s grip has not loosened yet, Branches beckon forth, aching to yield, Life from death, let us not forget, And from hay-stacks slapped by the wind.

We will remember this season, the rebirth, And the song of nature over the land, Awakening mute sounds, softly calling, Regardless of time, refusing commands.

We will know our moss-crowned names, And the trees shall come alive once more, Answering the cries of our souls in pain. Glimmers through branches shall shape our next door.

• TS Eliot