In November

No windy white of wind-blown clouds is thine! No windy white, but low and sodden gray, That holds the melancholy skies and kills The wild song and the wild-bird. Yet, ah me! Thy melancholy skies and mournful woods, Brown, sighing forests dying that I love! Thy long, dead leaves, deep, deep about my feet, Slow, dragging feet that halt or wander on; Thy deep, sweet, crimson leaves that burn and die With silent fever of the sickened wood.

I love to hear in all thy wind-swept coignes, Rain-wet and choked with bleached and ruined weeds, The withered whisper of the many leaves, That, fallen on barren ways--like fallen hopes-- Once held so high upon the Summer's heart Of stalwart trees, now seem the desolate voice Of Earth lamenting in hushed undertones Her green departed glory vanished so.