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Message: <blockquote data-quote="fusangite" data-source="post: 2135653" data-attributes="member: 7240">April is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory and desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the StarnbergerseeWith a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnadeAnd 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 arch-duke's,My cousin's, 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.What are the roots that clutch, what branches growOut of this stony rubbish? Son of man,You cannot say or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,ANd the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,And the dry stone no sound of water. OnlyThere is a shadow under this red rock,(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),And I will show you something different from eitherYour shadow at morning striding behind youOr your shadow at evening rising to meet you;I will show you fear in a handful of dust.</blockquote>