NOVEMBER.
THE wild November comes at last
Beneath a veil of rain;
The night wind blows its folds aside—
Her face is full of pain.
The latest of her race, she takes
The Autumn's vacant throne:
She has but one short moon to live,
And she must live alone!
A barren realm of withered fields;
Bleak woods and falling leaves;
The palest morns that ever dawned;
The dreariest of eves.
It is no wonder that she comes,
Poor month! With tears of pain;
For what can one so helpless do
But weep, and weep again.
—Selected