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At Day-Close In November
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Thomas Hardy
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The ten hours’ light is abating And a late bird wings across 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 tall trees grew here That none will in time be seen
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Ton pseudo sera publié. Laisses les champs vide pour rester anonyme.
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