WORD: The Finest month

The poet T. S. Eliot wrote that April is “the cruelest month.” I prefer to regard it by its other designation: National Poetry Month. Instead of reading this blog, go find a book of poems and dive in. Read one, or ten, or more, and don’t stop until your heart is full and your soul soars.

Here’s one to start, composed by an anonymous voyager of the seas long, long ago.

O western wind, when wilt thou blow?

The small rain down can rain.

Christ that my love were in my arms

And I in my bed again.

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