quarta-feira, 17 de março de 2010

INTERNATIONAL DAY OF POETRY



     


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.

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