Winter Words Op. 52: I. At Day-Close In November

The ten hours light is abating

And the late bird wings are cross

Where the pines like waltzers waiting

Give their black heads a toss

Beech leaves that yellow the noontime

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 trees, no tall trees grew here

That none will in time be seen