November

The grey clouds hide the sun now

And the leaves flow down with the rain:

The golden days are done now

And Winter looms again.

‘ Tis bed-time for the seeds now

For the earth is weary of green:

She'll hide the very weeds now

Till nothing gay be seen.

Yet wait! it is not death now

That strips the meadow and grove:

The rose but holds her breath now

In the garden that we love:

‘ Tis sleep — the earth must rest now.

O Winter's a wondrous thing!

For she hides within her breast now

The jocund heart of Spring.