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By George Meredith

A wind sways the pines,

         And below

Not a breath of wild air;

Still as the mosses that glow

On the flooring and over the lines

Of the roots here and there.

The pine-tree drops its dead;

They are quiet, as under the sea.

Overhead, overhead

Rushes life in a race,

As the clouds the clouds chase;

         And we go,

And we drop like the fruits of the tree,

         Even we,

         Even so.


  • Living
  • Nature

Poet Bio

George Meredith
George Meredith’s mother died when he was five, and he spent much of his childhood at boarding schools. Meredith’s books of poetry and fiction are notable for their close attention to how people really talk and think as well their portrayals of men and women as equal, which was uncommon in Victorian literature. Meredith, who lived most of his life in England, received both the Order of Merit and the gold medal of the Royal Society of Literature in recognition of his literary work.

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