T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). The Waste Land. 1922.<br /><br />The Waste Land<br /><br />I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD<br /><br />APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding <br />Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing <br />Memory and desire, stirring <br />Dull roots with spring rain. <br />Winter kept us warm, covering <br />Earth in forgetful snow, feeding <br />A little life with dried tubers. <br />Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee <br />With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, <br />And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, <br />And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. <br />Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. <br />And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, <br />My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, <br />And I was frightened. He said, Marie, <br />Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. <br />In the mountains, there you feel free. <br />I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.<br /><br />-----<br /><br /><a href="http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html" target="_blank">http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html</a>