IN NOVEMBER.

The hills and leafless forests slowly yield

To the thick-driving snow. A little while

And night shall darken down. In shouting file

The woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled,

Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed,

Now golden-grey, sowed softly through with snow,

Where the last ploughman follows still his row,

Turning black furrows through the whitening field.

Far off the village lamps begin to gleam,

Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way;

The hills grow wintery white, and bleak winds moan

About the naked uplands. I alone

Am neither sad, nor shelterless, nor grey,

Wrapped round with thought, content to watch and dream.