NOVEMBER.
Tis said that thou art "dreary; "
Unpleasant in thy reign;
Too chill and wet thy mantle,
With autumn fogs and rain.
"Too few" thy gleams of sunshine
Amid half-leafless trees;
Too full of "wail" the burden
Of thy wind harmonies.
In heart, a stem "twin brother"
Of April, child of tears,
With less of birds and brightness
And more of clouds and fears.
Nay, let the world deride thee,
And cast their stone of blame;
I'm still thy friend, November,
And smile to write thy name.
I love the skies so changing,
Thy floating folds of mist;
One sunbeam lights the landscape,
And is enough, I wist.
And joy to me, the scudding
Of leaves before the wind;
The scattering nuts; the squirrels
With frolic feet behind.
The sheltered ferns, unfrosted,
With bits of golden rod;
The asters bright, the milk-weed,
White-winged in every pod.
The berries red and purple,
The unchanged immortelle;
With here a sprig of yarrow,
And there a heather-bell.
By all these outward tokens,
November days are here,
To many dark and dreary,
To others full of cheer.
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