NOVEMBER.

Low lines of leaden clouds sweep by Across the gold sun and blue sky, Which still are there eternally. Above the sodden garden-bed Droop empty flower-stalks, dry and dead, Where the tall lily bent its head Over carnations white and red.

The leafless poplars, straight and tall, Stand by the gray-green garden wall, From which such rare fruit used to fall. In the verandah, where of old Sweet August spent the roses' gold, Round the chill pillars, shivering, fold Garlands of rose-thorns, sharp with cold.

And we, by cosy fireside, muse On what the Fates grant, what refuse; And what we waste and what we use. Summer returns—despite the rain That weeps against the window-pane. Who'd weep—'mid fame and golden gain— For youth, that does not come again?