Thomas Hardy

The Upper Birch-Leaves

Warm yellowy-green
In the blue serene,
How they skip and sway
On this autumn day!
They cannot know
What has happened below, –
That their boughs down there
Are already quite bare,
That their own will be
When a week has passed, –
For they jig as in glee
To this very last.

But no; there lies
At times in their tune
A note that cries
What at first I fear
I did not hear:
‘O we remember
At each wind’s hollo –
Though life holds yet –
We go hence soon,
For ’tis November;
– But that you follow
You may forget!’