The ten hours' light is abating, <br />And a late bird flies across, <br />Where the pines, like waltzers waiting, <br />Give their black heads a toss. <br /> <br />Beech leaves, that yellow the noon-time, <br />Float past like specks in the eye; <br />I set every tree in my June time, <br />And now they obscure the sky. <br /> <br />And the children who ramble through here <br />Conceive that there never has been <br />A time when no tall trees grew here, <br />A time when none will be seen.<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-day-close-in-november/
