Lark(in) the trees

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.


While reading Larkin last night, I found out that you can hear
his reading of two poems ("The Trees" and "The Whitsun
Weddings") here. His voice is soft, solemn, and a bit wearied,
but breathes into his poems a stirring. The site is wonderful
and features many other poets (going as far back to Tennyson!),
but, of all the poets I heard last night and today, I still
find Larkin to be the most resonant.