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. Angela Burdett-Coutts
2. Modern Love. Sonnet 31. This Golden Head has Wit in it
3. Modern Love. Sonnet 27. Distraction is the Panacea, Sir!
4. Atkins
5. My Theme

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