Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))

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.

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.

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.

1. Afternoon Service at Mellstock
2. The Supplanter
3. Evening Shadows
4. At the Altar-Rail
5. At the Word ‘Farewell’

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1441

Последние стихотворения

To English version