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April - Aprire - Aprile

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour, Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth        Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,  And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye,      So priketh hem nature in hir corages:  Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages… (Prologue to: The  Canterbury Tales - Goeffrey Chaucer)

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. (T.S.Eliot: The Waste land)

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