T.S. Eliot · USA/UK · 1922
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 sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
T.S. Eliot · USA/UK · 1922
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 sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
“April is the cruellest month, breeding…”
April is the cruelest month — not because it''s harsh, but because it forces things back to life. It stirs up lilacs from dead ground, mixing memories of the past with new desires. Winter was actually a mercy: it covered everything in snow and let us forget.
“Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee…”
Then summer arrived unexpectedly — a sudden rain shower over a lake, a moment of shelter, then walking out into sunshine in a Munich park, drinking coffee, talking for a lazy hour about nothing in particular.
“I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.”
I read through much of the night, and I go south when winter comes.
Why this poem matters
The opening of Eliot's landmark modernist poem, written while suffering a nervous breakdown. The entire poem is a collage of languages, myths, and voices representing a civilization in fragments after WWI.