I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD
1 APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding 2 Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing 3 Memory and desire, stirring 4 Dull roots with spring rain.
And so it goes.
431 These fragments I have shored against my ruins 432 Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe. 433 Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
434 Shantih shantih shantih
T.S. Eliot - The Waste Land