Don Paterson as Andrew Marvell
They were trees, and trees don't weep or ache or shout.
And trees are all this poem is about.
Not that it quite resolves that oddity, but I'm also struck by the metaphysical flavour of the poem; in particular, how Marvellian it is. This is partly a matter of the rhyming couplets, handled (apparently) loosely and skating over a series of rhythmical glitches; but it's also partly a matter of the argumentative play. The poem's slightly terrifying dead-end close underlines this: it's the poetic equivalent of when a cartoon car goes over a cliff and drops away, leaving the driver in mid-air. This reminds me somehow of Marvell – how even his best work seems slightly careless, dashed off; and this quality, of seeming to have been written by someone who knew it didn't matter, is both charming and dreadful.