(TS Eliot on a downer):

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain. . "
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? …
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter,…
And the dry stone no sound of water.