At Day-Close In November By Thomas Hardy
The ten hours' light is abating
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 see every tree in my June time,
And now they obscure the sky.
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.
Copyright by © Thomas Hardy 1840-1928 [all right reserved]