About the poet
Philip Larkin (1922-1985) is a poet whose very name conjures up a specific persona: the gloomy,...
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
from The Collected Poems (Faber, 1993), by permission of the publisher, Faber & Faber Ltd. Recording used by permission of Mr. John Weeks.