Thursday, November 22, 2007


November (V)

Thomas Hardy, The Later Autumn:
Gone are the lovers, under the bush
        Stretched at their ease;
        Gone the bees,
Tangling themselves in your hair as they rush
        On the line of your track,
        Leg-laden, back
        With a dip to their hive
        In a prepossessed dive.

Toadsmeat is mangy, frosted, and sere;
        Apples in grass
        Crunch as we pass,
And rot ere the men who make cyder appear.
        Couch-fires abound
        On fallows around,
        And shades far extend
        Like lives soon to end.

Spinning leaves join the remains shrunk and brown
        Of last year's display
        That lie wasting away,
On whose corpses they earlier as scorners gazed down
        From their aery green height:
        Now in the same plight
        They huddle; while yon
        A robin looks on.
Toadsmeat = toadstools
Couch = couch-grass (Triticum repens)

Caspar David Friedrich, Forest in Late Autumn

Related posts:

<< Home
Newer›  ‹Older

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?