April feels like the beginning of a monumental undertaking. All of this will culminate sometime in the middle of August, when the yellow light goes aslant and the daytime shadows sharpen. But enough of that for now. There will be plenty of time to mull that over. In the meantime, April is most certainly not "the cruellest month."
Wanton with long delay the gay spring leaping cometh;
The blackthorn starreth now his bough on the eve of May:
All day in the sweet box-tree the bee for pleasure hummeth:
The cuckoo sends afloat his note on the air all day.
Now dewy nights again and rain in gentle shower
At root of tree and flower have quenched the winter's drouth:
On high the hot sun smiles, and banks of cloud uptower
In bulging heads that crowd for miles the dazzling south.
Robert Bridges, The Shorter Poems (1891).
Exactly: where the winter was
The spring has come: I see her now
In the fields, and as she goes
The flowers spring, nobody knows how.
C. H. Sisson, What and Who (1994).