Continuing the recent poetry posting.
Dirge in the Woods
George MeredithA wind sways the pines,And belowNot a breath of wild air;Still as the mosses that glowOn the flooring and over the linesOf the roots here and there.The pine-tree drops its dead;They are quiet, as under the sea.Overhead, overheadRushes 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…