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 and grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
May is my favourite month of the year and Larkin's words capture exactly how I feel about it.