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.