November (Stoddard)

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This work was published before January 1, 1923, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.

 


 

November.

 

 Much have I spoken of the faded leaf;
    Long have I listened to the wailing wind,
  And watched it ploughing through the heavy clouds;
    For autumn charms my melancholy mind.

  When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge:
    The year must perish; all the flowers are dead;
  The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail
    Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled!

  Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer,
    The holly-berries and the ivy-tree:
  They weave a chaplet for the Old Year's heir;
    These waiting mourners do not sing for me!

  I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods,
    Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss;
  The naked, silent trees have taught me this,—
    The loss of beauty is not always loss!