Sometimes in the middle autumn days,
The windless days when the swallows have flown,
And the sere elms brood in the mist,
Each tree a being, rapt, alone,
I know, not as in barren thought,
But wordlessly, as the bones know,
What quenching of my brain, what numbness,
Wait in the dark grave where I go.
And I see the people thronging the street,
The death-marked people, they and I
Goalless, rootless, like leaves drifting,
Blind to the earth and to the sky;
Nothing believing, nothing loving,
Not in joy nor in pain, not heeding the stream
Of precious life that flows within us,
But fighting, toiling as in a dream.
So shall we in the rout of life
Some thought, some faith, some meaning save,
And speak it once before we go
In silence to the silent grave…
(George Orwell)
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Based on Topics: Life Poems, Mind Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Dreams Poems, Thought & Thinking Poems, Pain Poems, Belief & Faith Poems, People Poems, Silence Poems, Brain PoemsBased on Keywords: numbness, wordlessly, goalless, death-marked