Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour.–Chaucer, Canterbury Tales.
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land,
Mixing Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.–Eliot, The Waste Land.