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 hereConceive that there never has beenA time when no tall trees grew here,A time when none will be seen.
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