A bit of an old chestnut, this (ha ha), but a splendid poem nevertheless.
Philip Larkin - The Trees
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
2 comments:
That is wonderful! Thank you for posting!
It's great isn't it? "Their greenness is a kind of grief." - only Larkin could have written that line.
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