"November"

The wind-swept trees, leaf-desolated, sway;
In labyrinths of gloom suns lose their way;
The sullen hills look grim as if at bay;
               The skies are grey.

The forest pine-trees give a shivering sound;
The ragged flowers lie on the ragged ground;
The rustling leaves are eddying round and round;
               The vines are interwound.

But, sometimes, sunshine in the old sweet ways
Brings back a touch of summer to the days,
And through the dim grey pallor of the haze
               In fitful glory plays.

And in the sheltered places still are found,
Lying among the grasses damp embrowned,
A few late lingering wild-flowers, azure-crowned,
               Blooming as if spell-bound.

The world seems in a reverie sad and deep,
Haunted with dreams of joys it could not keep;
And while numb languors through its chill veins creep
               November falls asleep.

C.E.Whiton-Stone