April is the cruellest month, breeding/Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing/Memory and desire, stirring/Dull roots with spring rain.

…‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;/They called me the hyacinth girl’/-Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,/Your arms full and your hair wet, I could not/Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither/Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,/Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

…Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations.