November

The grey clouds hide the sun now And the leaves flow down with the rain: The golden days are done now And Winter looms again.

'Tis bed-time for the seeds now For the earth is weary of green: She'll hide the very weeds now Till nothing gay be seen.

Yet wait! it is not death now That strips the meadow and grove: The rose but holds her breath now In the garden that we love:

'Tis sleep—the earth must rest now. O Winter's a wondrous thing! For she hides within her breast now The jocund heart of Spring.