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.
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