Thomas Hardy

November quickly comes to a close, as we await the cold, festive days of December.
Here’s a poem for your consideration by Thomas Hardy (June 2, 1840—January 11, 1928), English novelist and poet.

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.
--Thomas Hardy