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April 5, 2011 / mollywillows


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 full grown thickness every may.

last year is dead, they seem to say,

begin afresh, afresh, afresh.


written by poet laureate/guru philip larkin



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