Through the trees and out of sight,
The river wound in silver light.
The reflection of a full-brimmed sky,
And the laughter of children drifting by.

Upon the horizon, the hills stand proud,
In work-done silence, cloaked by a cloud.
Where the sirens of spring begin to ring,
To dream to it does the wild world cling.

Nature cradles the midnight glow,
While we traverse our lives so slow.
Life is fleeting, a quickened game,
While the pulse of earth forever remains the same.

• Philip Larkin