The Trees --- Philip Larkin

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The secret buds relax and spread
Their greenness is a knod of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too
Thier yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In full grown thickness every May
Last year is dead, they seem to say
Being afresh, afresh, afresh