The rain of a night and a day and a night br Stops at the light br Of this pale choked day. The peering sun br Sees what has been done. br The road under the trees has a border new br of purple hue br Inside the border of bright thin grass: br For all that has br Been left by November of leaves is torn br From hazel and thorn br And the greater trees. Throughout the copse br No dead leaf drops br On grey grass, green moss, burnt-orange fern, br At the wind's return: br The leaflets out of the ash-tree shed br Are thinly spread br In the road, like little black fish, inlaid, br As if they played. br What hangs from the myriad branches down there br So hard and bare br Is twelve yellow apples lovely to see br On one crab-tree. br And on each twig of every tree in the dell br Uncountable br Crystals both dark and bright of the the rain br That begins again.