Can trouble live with April days?

I don’t know how you guys feel about the month of April, but I feel as though it is always the most tumultuous and unpredictable month of the year. While it may seem as though I am referring to the weather patterns, the unstable jet stream pulsing an alternating pattern of artic Canadian air, and warm, humid Gulf of Mexico air across the middle of our nation, causing tornadoes to rip across the plains, melting snow and flooding towns, and then giving some of the most breathtakingly beautiful days of the year. I think for whatever reason the tumultuous nature of the month of April is not simply limited to the weather. As I reflect on April’s past and I look to see what this April will hold I see a lot of raw emotion. I am not the first one to pick up on this, and I must credit the poets in further helping me realize the emotion of the month of April. April has been declared National Poetry Month by the Academy of American Poets, and so accordingly I would like to share some of my favorite April (or spring poems). I would encourage you to do the same, and hopefully this could broaden all of our horizons, as you will see many of my poems will come from two of the poets that first showed me the beauty of poetry Tennyson and Dickinson. I highly recommend checking out the works of both of these poets, but would caution against reading too much Dickinson before going to bed….
I’ll just share a few lines about spring/April, and hopefully we can enjoy some more throughout the cruel month of Aprl:

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

Taken from "The Waste Land" by T.S. Eliot

“Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last – far off – at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.”

“Dip down upon the northern shore,
O sweet new-year delaying long;
Thou doest expectant nature wrong;
Delaying long, delay no more.

What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer moons?”

“Is it, then regret for buried time
That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colours of the crescent prime?

Not all: the songs, the stirring air,
The life re-orient out of dust,
Cry through the sense to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.”

Taken from "In Memoriam A.H.H." by Lord Alfred Tennyson