NPM: #6–of Hardy’s leaves
Where They Lived
Thomas Hardy, 1840 – 1928
Dishevelled leaves creep down
Upon that bank to-day,
Some green, some yellow, and some pale brown;
The wet bents bob and sway;
The once warm slippery turf is sodden
Where we laughingly sat or lay.
The summerhouse is gone,
Leaving a weedy space;
The bushes that veiled it once have grown.
Gaunt trees that interlace,
Through whose lank limbs I see too clearly
The nakedness of the place.
And where were hills of blue,
Blind drifts of vapour blow,
And the names of former dwellers few,
If any, people know,
And instead of a voice that called, “Come in, Dears,”
Time calls, “Pass below!”
As I get older, I realize autumn is replacing my favorite season of summer. The warmth is still there, the greens fading into muted colors–there is a peace, a tranquility to fall versus the frantic heat and activity summer requires. I think Hardy realized this as well.