The trees are down, they are not seen: Their silent tombs beneath the ground Memorials of the grey and green That covered all the land around.
Gone from the woodlands, landed here Destroying many paths once drawn And now the beauty of the year Is languid in a chill drab dawn.
The wind blows down the empty paths,
The fallen trunks stretch cold and dry; This beautiful, forgotten place Lies flat and empty underneath the sky.
- Philip Larkin