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.
-- Philip Larkin
1 comment:
Hello:
We have always enjoyed Larkin's poetry and so have delighted in this.
Perhaps one of our favourites is Whitsun Weddings [almost topical] with that wonderful description of the train journey through the bleak, flat Midland countryside to London.
Thank you so much for the comment left on our latest post to which we have made reply. We shall look forward to keeping in touch.
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