Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
Last Week in October
The trees are undressing, and fling in many places – On the gray road, the roof, the window-sill – Their radiant robes and ribbons and yellow laces; A leaf each second so is flung at will, Here, there, another and another, still and still. A spider’s web has caught one while downcoming, That stays there dangling when the rest pass on; Like a suspended criminal hangs he, mumming In golden garb, while one yet green, high yon, Trembles, as fearing such a fate for himself anon.
Thomas Hardy’s other poems:
1305