I know what Eliot says about April being the cruelest month, but I've never understood it; I'd be glad for it to be April now and the lilacs growing out of the dead land.
Does he mean that April fails to live up to its promise?
I guess one can't accuse February of that. February makes no promises. It is the coldest, bleakest, muddiest, dankest month. Thank God, it is also the shortest.
And now it's March. And here comes Flora, with one hand on her hat, pushing her way against a strong, cold wind, with daffodils clasped in the crook of her arm.