Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon

The Woods Entry

So old is the wood, so old,
Old as Fear.
Wrinkled roots; great stems; hushed leaves;
No sound near.
Shadows retreat into shadow,
Deepening, crossed.
Burning light singles a low leaf, a bough,
Far within, lost. 

1. Now That I Have Won
2. The Dead to the Living
3. Whitechapel High Road
4. Inheritance
5. Ah, Now This Happy Month Is Gone

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