Now and Then
The bare trunks of the beech-trees
rise out of the bluebell-lake,
and everywhere the clear green
(soft and strong as a child’s skin)
of earliest summer. This is
life, which live things by nature
(their nature, its own) forsake.
Does it matter?
Aconite, snowdrop, give place to primrose,
bluebell to buttercup, dog-rose.
but not the season’s flowers.
And why should we mourn?
Why accept the pattern
for these, question ours?
It matters and doesn’t matter.