Homeland Security Watch

News and analysis of critical issues in homeland security

April 15, 2014

To what purpose, April, do you return again?

Filed under: General Homeland Security — by Christopher Bellavita on April 15, 2014

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?

1. marathon 10


1a marathon 8


2 marathon 3



3  marathon 1


3 marathon 13



Bramhall's World - Boston NY - New York Daily News 4/16/20135 marathon 4



7 marathon 6

8 marathon 5Clay Bennett editorial cartoon

9 marathon 9a

11 marathon 12

12 marathon 11

It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify? ….
Life in itself
Is nothing
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

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Comment by E. Earhart

April 15, 2014 @ 5:49 am

April, come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain.

Paul Simon

Comment by E. Earhart

April 15, 2014 @ 5:51 am

Don’t try plotting dead or tragic against attention.

The median of these numbers is about 13, 330 deaths per year;
36 deaths per day; or
1 death every 40 minutes.


Drunk Driving Fatalities:

2011: 9,878
2010: 10,288
2009: 10,759
2008: 11,711
2007: 13,041
2006: 13,491
2005: 13,582
2004: 13,099
2003: 13,096
2002: 13,472
2001: 13,290
2000: 13,324
1999: 12,555
1998: 12,546
1997: 12,757
1996: 13,451
1995: 13,478
1994: 13,390
1993: 13,739
1992: 14,049
1991: 15,827


Comment by Claire B. Rubin

April 15, 2014 @ 6:33 am

Those numbers surely are discouraging.

Comment by Philip J. Palin

April 15, 2014 @ 6:59 am

I return again to give testimony. I prophesy with crocus piercing frozen ground, daffodils bent with snow, paradox of opposites subsuming every attempt at orthodoxy. Cosmic equinox. Dukkha and Bohdi. Tragedy with transcendence entwined. Even Eliot, that old procurator of ambiguity, felt compelled to explain: “Shanthi, shanthi, shanthi. Repeated as here, a formal ending to an Upanishad. ‘The Peace which passeth understanding’ is a feeble translation of the content of this word.”

Comment by William R. Cumming

April 15, 2014 @ 9:22 am


Helpers and those who survive events of tragedy know several meanings for this phrase. Some believe this refers to love but I believe it refers to Proust’s PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY both good and bad.


Comment by Christopher Tingus

April 15, 2014 @ 6:03 pm

Atlantic Souvenir 1828

The Spirit of Poetry
There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where’er the gentle south-wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast ushering star of morning comes
O’er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird’s wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, front the morning’s dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

Comment by William R. Cumming

April 16, 2014 @ 10:38 am

Thanks Chris! Attribution?

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