The Landscape

In the summer of 1915 I sat In the shade of an oak tree, my heart full of The familiar ache of love, and the sun must have Been bright because in death it made me feel Alive, yet how far it was to follow, how far To follow the veins in the leaves and the marble, Bearing on my shoulders the weight of the hours Delighting in its coolness. But now the foliage, The oaks, the distant hills all weep beneath The touch of time while I, still loving, Call out to the spectres of my past—those Endless sensations in the lap of the world.

• Stephen Spender