‘A wind sways the pines,

                And below

Not a breath of wild air:

Still as the mosses that glow

On the flooring and under 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.’

George Meredith