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. The Dead to the Living
2. Flame and Snow
3. Now That I Have Won
4. Inheritance
5. The Snows of Spring

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