To what purpose, April, do you return again? Edna St. Vincent Millay asks in “Spring.”
Time has come to remember tragedy.
On Sunday a scrubby heil hitler spitting septuagenarian hatewad clawed tears into Kansas.
A year ago the madness shrouded Boston.
T.S. Elliot wrote
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Mixing memory and desire. Stirring dull roots.
But to what purpose, April?
Walt Whitman — grieving a Lincoln whose April 15 death few any longer commemorate — thought also of the lilacs
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
To mourn with ever-returning spring?
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify? ….
Life in itself
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs,
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. — Edna St. Vincent Millay