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. If You Had Known
2. Our Old Friend Dualism
3. When Oats Were Reaped
4. Paying Calls
5. The Shadow on the Stone

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