The rain of a night and a day and a night Stops at the light

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