Memory, you have the key.
"April is the cruelest month, breedinglilacs out of the dead land, mixingmemory and desire, stirringdull roots with spring rain."("He who was living is now dead")And vis-a-vis "spring rain" the memory and desire of another April:"WHAN that Aprille with his shoures sooteThe droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,And bathed every veyne in swich licour,Of which vertu engendred is the flour;Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breethInspired hath in every holt and heethThe tendre croppes, and the yonge sonneHath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,And smale fowles maken melodye,That slepen al the night with open ye,(So priketh hem nature in hir corages:Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,And palmers for to seken straunge strondes,To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes;And specially, from every shires endeOf Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,The holy blisful martir for to seke,That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke."Well a thought that has prefigured many a time vis-a-vis the opening lines of 'The Waste Land.'CR