TEN O'CLOCK AND FOUR O'CLOCK

It stands there

Tall and solitary on the edge

Of the last hill, green on the green hill.

Ten o'clock the tree's called, no one knows why.

Perhaps it was planted there at ten o'clock

Or someone was hanged there at ten o'clock —

A hundred such good reasons might be found,

But no one knows. It vexed me that none knew,

Seeing it miles and miles off and then nearer

And nearer yet until, beneath the hill,

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.