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 Chimes Play ‘Life’s a Bumper!’
2. The Pat of Butter
3. The Paphian Ball
4. After the Death of a Friend
5. Her Reproach

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