The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief. Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too. Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still the unresting castles thresh In fullgrown thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

I have wished you something None of the others would.

On me your voice falls as they say love should, Like an enormous yes.

Only in books the flat and final happens, Only in dreams we meet and interlock.

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left, / Shaped to the comfort of the last to go / As if to win them back

Here is an unfenced existance

Novels are about other people and poems are about yourself.