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Thomas Hardy - At Day-Close In November
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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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