Poem by 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.

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. The End of the Episode
2. Barthelemon at Vauxhall
3. The Month’s Calendar
4. Revulsion
5. At Waking

Print

1543 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version