Long confessed of leaves, mace-pods,
   these sycamores, maples,
the beeches, sessile in groves
   a weak sun drills at last
after a heavy overcloak
   of ashen days, 
why look to them
   except to exempt
from spilling one secret hour
   leavened & buttery-gold
despite woolen drapery, coats,
   socks, even gloves left on?
Whole bodies become throats,
   the guarded now unguarded—
which is the skull’s bright saying, yes?
   What the longer light means?
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