Dirge in the Woods by George Meredith

A wind sways the pines,
And below
Not a breath of wild air;
Still as the mosses that glow
On the flooring and over the lines
Of the roots here and there.
The pine-tree drops its dead;
They are quiet, as under the sea.
Overhead, overhead
Rushes life in a race,
As the clouds the clouds chase;
And we go,
And we drop like the fruits of the tree,
Even we,
Even so.
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I don't understand why this was written in this kind of way; i don't know what this format is called. This is one of those, 'cool names so you look at it' kind of poems. I read it a couple of times over to capture the full meaning Meredith was trying to get across. Very intriguing stating that humans are fruits of the tree, that when we die, we drop from the tree like its offspring. Very captivating to me for such a short poem.

poetryfoundation.org