910. Dirge in Woods, by 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.

Source: Selected Poems of George Meredith

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