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The Trees

 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.

Poem by Philip Larkin
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