Poem: “The Last Week in October” by Thomas Hardy

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.