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 did too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the ingesting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to day,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.