Monday, February 23, 2015

The Trees by Philip Larkin (1967)

The Trees by Philip Larkin

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.

I have a love/hate relationship with poetry.  But, as with me and all art, when I like something I like it and I know it, and when I don't like something, I'm not very forgiving or probing (usually).  I can be convinced though (see: Opera).

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