The Wasteland, 1922. T.S. Eliot: "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 forgetfull snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the collonade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read much of the night, and go south in the winter.