NOVEMBER SKIES

Than these November skies

Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep;

Into their gray the subtle spies

Of colour creep,

Changing that high austerity to delight,

Till even the leaden interfolds are bright.

And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peers

Ere a thin flushing cloud again

Shuts up that loveliness, or shares.

The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, as

Reluctant the quick sun should shine in vain,

Holding in bright caprice their rain.

And when of colours none,

Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green,

Is truly seen,—

In all the myriad gray,

In silver height and dusky deep, remain

The loveliest,

Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.