Ya know what, Stim? If you want to start some stupid argument go elsewhere.

April is the cruellest month, breeding        
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing        
Memory and desire, stirring        
Dull roots with spring rain.        
Winter kept us warm, covering                 
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding        
A little life with dried tubers.        
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee        
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,        
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,        
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.        
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.        
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,        
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,        
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,        
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.        
In the mountains, there you feel free.        
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

Or if you prefer:

Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(so priketh hem nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of engelond to caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.
Bifil that in that seson on a day,
In southwerk at the tabard as I lay
Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
To caunterbury with ful devout corage,
At nyght was come into that hostelrye
Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye,
Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle
In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,
That toward caunterbury wolden ryde.