Poem by George Meredith

Dirge in Woods

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. 

1. A Ballad of Past Meridian
2. Alternation
3. Modern Love. Sonnet 31. This Golden Head has Wit in it
4. Modern Love. Sonnet 27. Distraction is the Panacea, Sir!
5. Modern Love. Sonnet 2. It Ended

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