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. Gallipoli
2. Angkor
3. The Renewal
4. One Year Old
5. Numbers

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