Thomas Hardy

(2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928 / Dorchester / England)

At Day-Close In November - Poem by Thomas Hardy

The ten hours' light is abating,
And a late bird flies 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,
A time when none will be seen.

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, April 10, 2010

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