Eliot opens by disagreeing with Chaucer: spring is the cruel season. Read the first lines as an argument with every April poem ever written before it.
April is the , breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.
Underlined words and phrases can be tapped for a note
April is the cruellest month: it breeds lilacs out of dead ground, mixes memory with desire, and stirs dull roots with spring rain.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water.
Underlined words and phrases can be tapped for a note
What roots are these that grip, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, you cannot say or even guess, because all you know is a heap of broken images where the sun beats down — a dead tree that gives no shelter, a cricket that gives no relief, dry stone that gives no sound of water.
A broken world, written in broken lines. Every answer comes with the reason and the line that proves it.
That's the whole thing.
Read it again slowly — it gets better the second time.