Monday, 1 June 2009

Cut Grass

by Philip Larkin Cut grass lies frail: Brief is the breath Mown stalks exhale. Long, long the death It dies in the white hours Of young-leafed June With chestnut flowers, With hedges snowlike strewn, White lilac bowed, Lost lanes of Queen Anne's lace, And that high-builded cloud Moving at summer's pace.

1 comment:

  1. The old chaps really had a way with words *sigh* Beautiful, you.