At Day-Close in November

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.


Anniina said...

Hey, thanks for posting this poem. How beautifully that photo goes with it!

Anonymous said...

What a beautiful, haunting poem. Check out the Benjamin Britten setting of the song - it won't disappoint.