Dirge in the Woods

Continuing the recent poetry posting.

Dirge in the Woods
George Meredith

A wind sways the pines,
         And below
Not a breath of wild air;
Still as the mosses that glow
On the flooring and over the lines
Of the roots here and there.
The pine-tree drops its dead;
They are quiet, as under the sea.
Overhead, overhead
Rushes life in a race,
As the clouds the clouds chase;
         And we go,
And we drop like the fruits of the tree,
         Even we,
         Even so.
I’m not sure why all these poems are about death.  They were not all chosen in a single reading, not even a single month, and I’m not a particularly morbid person.  nevertheless…
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