NOVEMBER 8

The year stands still, the tearing winter winds

Hold off their claws a moment, that the trees

May keep the glory of their blended gold

A little minute; there's not so much breeze

As summer mornings hold.

Golden and still the hours; russet gold

The birch-leaves o'er the silver of the bark;

Pale gold the poplars, like a lady's hair,

And thunderous gold along the hollows dark

The sunlit brackens flare.