NOVEMBER

How like a hooded friar, bent and grey,

Whose pensive lips speak only when they pray

Doth sad November pass upon his way.

Through forest aisles while the wind chanteth low —

In God's cathedral where the great trees grow,

Now all day long he paceth to and fro.

When shadows gather and the night-mists rise,

Up to the hills he lifts his sombre eyes

To where the last red rose of sunset lies.

A little smile he weareth, wise and cold,

The smile of one to whom all things are old,

And life is weary, as a tale twice told.

“Come see,” he seems to say — “where joy has fled —

The leaves that burned but yesterday so red

Have turned to ashes — and the flowers are dead.

“The summer's green and gold hath taken flight,

October days have gone. Now bleached and white

Winter doth come with many a lonely night.

“And though the people will not heed or stay,

But pass with careless laughter on their way,

Even I, with rain of tears, will wait and pray.”