For nations vague as weed, <br />For nomads among stones, <br />Small-statured cross-faced tribes <br />And cobble-close families <br />In mill-towns on dark mornings <br />Life is slow dying. <br /> <br />So are their separate ways <br />Of building, benediction, <br />Measuring love and money <br />Ways of slowly dying. <br />The day spent hunting pig <br />Or holding a garden-party, <br /> <br />Hours giving evidence <br />Or birth, advance <br />On death equally slowly. <br />And saying so to some <br />Means nothing; others it leaves <br />Nothing to be said.<br /><br />Philip Larkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nothing-to-be-said/
