Nature’s poet is unkissed, Unkind, and yet so clear, She whispers to the failing mist, And bites with a stolen spear.

The frail light that flickers down Makes shadows of landscapes once bright. In the rustle of leaves we drown, And sip at life through fabled night.

The crumpled petals fall, not vain, They carpet the paths with sorrow’s breath. Each flower’s birth, a silent pain, Each fading word, the echo of death.

• Philip Larkin