 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
AT DAY-CLOSE IN NOVEMBER
The ten hours' light is abating,
And a late bird wings across,
Where the pines, like waltzers waiting,
Give their black heads a toss.
And a late bird wings across,
Where the pines, like waltzers waiting,
Give their black heads a toss.
Beech leaves, that yellow the noon-time,
Float past like specks in the eye;
I set every tree in my June time,
And now they obscure the sky.
Float past like specks in the eye;
I set every tree in my June time,
And now they obscure the sky.
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And the children who ramble through here
Conceive that there never has been
A time when no tall trees grew here,
That none will in time be seen.
Conceive that there never has been
A time when no tall trees grew here,
That none will in time be seen.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |