Maybe T. S. Eliot meant to contrast the exuberance of spring, new green leaves, lambing time, nature's extravaganza, with the certainty of death and coming winter, as old age inexorably claims our lives, sooner or later.

Maybe he was resentful that Nature doesn't give a damn about one individual's fears or declining years, but every spring continues the cycle of life whether our feelings are hurt or not.

April promises so much glory, but can be quick to change her mind and turn cold and mean.

I'm in a mood to brood over these things, while the day itself is bright and sunny, telling me to get over it. Come out and play for a while. This mood, too, shall pass.