By Philip Larkin
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greeness 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 fullest thickets every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
Image from journeyoflight.com