Explore "At Day-Close in November" by Thomas Hardy on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.