NOVEMBER 8
THE LITTLE SUMMER OF ALL SAINTS
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.