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?