I looked up, up, and saw it nodding there,
A single tree upon the sharp-edged hill,
Holding its leaves though in the orchard all
Leaves and fruit were stripped or hung but few
Red and yellow over the littered grass. 
—­It vexed me, the brave tree and senseless name,
As I went through the valley looking up
And then looked round on elm and beech and chestnut
And all that lingering flame amid the hedge
That marked the miles and miles. 
      Then I forgot: 
For through the apple-orchard’s shadow I saw
Between the dark boughs of the cherry-orchard
A great slow fire which Time had lit to burn
The mortal seasons up, and leave bare black
Unchanging Winter.

Weston-sub-Edge.

THE YEW

The moon gave no light. 
The clouds rode slowly over, broad and white,
From the soft south west. 
The wind, that cannot rest,
Soothed and then waked the darkness of the yew
Until the tree was restless too.

Of all the winds I knew
I thought, and how they muttered in the yew,
Or raved under the eaves,
Or nosed the fallen dry leaves,
Or with harsh voice holloa’d the orchard round,
With snapped limbs littering the ground.

And I thought how the yew
Between the window and the west his shadow threw,
Grave and immense,
Darkening the dark past thought and sense,
And how the moon would make the darkness heavenly bright: 
But the moon gave no light.

NOVEMBER SKIES

Than these November skies
Is no sky lovelier.  The clouds are deep;
Into their gray the subtle spies
Of colour creep,
Changing that high austerity to delight,
Till even the leaden interfolds are bright. 
And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peers
Ere a thin flushing cloud again
Shuts up that loveliness, or shares. 
The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, as
Reluctant the quick sun should shine in vain,
Holding in bright caprice their rain. 
    And when of colours none,
Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green,
Is truly seen,—­
In all the myriad gray,
In silver height and dusky deep, remain
The loveliest,
Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.

DELIGHT

Winter is fallen
  On the wretched grass,
Dark winds have stolen
  All the colour that was. 
No leaf shivers: 
The bare boughs bend and creak as the wind moans by
Fled is the fitful gleam of brightness
  From the stooping sky.

A robin scatters
  Like bright rain his song,
Of merry matters
  The sparrows gossip long. 
Snow in the sky
  Lingers, soon to cover the world with white,
And hush the slender enchanting music
  And chill the delight.