One last poem, from the Wasteland by T S Eliot:
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
To which I say, Hell no! Give me April, and you can have February. Today was gorgeous. The wind was providing an example of what the word "zephyr" is all about. Everything is green, and the trees are hiding the ugly stuff you have to look at in winter.
Maybe April is cruel in Australia?
Poets spout an awful lot of nonsense. For instance Shelley said "Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world." No. They are not. Could they do better than the acknowledged and duly elected legislators of the U S Congress?