Very Old

Very old are the woods;
And the buds that break
Out of the brier's boughs,
When march winds wake,
So old with their beauty are-
Oh, no man knows
Through what wild centuries
Roves back the rose.
Very old are the brooks;
And the rills that rise
Where snow sleeps cold beneath
The azure skies
Sing such a history
Of come and gone,
Their every drop is wise
As Solomon.

Walter De La Mare