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.