Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs, <br />Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers, <br />Pass'd o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, <br />Which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living bowers. <br /> <br />And still a new succession sings and flies; <br />Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot <br />Towards the old and still enduring skies, <br />While the low violet thrives at their root. <br /> <br />But thou beneath the sad and heavy line <br />Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark; <br />Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, <br />Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark. <br /> <br />And yet—as if some deep hate and dissent, <br />Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, <br />Were still alive—thou dost great storms resent <br />Before they come, and know'st how near they be. <br /> <br />Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath <br />Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease; <br />But this thy strange resentment after death <br />Means only those who broke—in life—thy peace.<br /><br />Henry Vaughan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-timber/
