NOVEMBER.
———
BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.
———
Fie upon thee, November! thou dost ape
The airs of thy young sisters;—thou hast stolen
The witching smile of May to grace thy lip,
And April’s rare, capricious loveliness
Thou ’rt trying to put on! Dost thou not know
Such freaks do not become thee? Thou shouldst be
A staid and sober matron, quietly
Laying aside the follies of thy youth,
And robing thee in that calm dignity
Meet for the handmaid of the dying year.
But ah! thou art a sad coquette, although
The frost of age is on thee! Thou dost sport
With every idle breeze that wooeth thee;
And toy and frolick with the aged leaves
That flutter round thee; and unto the low,
Soft murmur of the brooklet, thou dost lend
A willing ear; and crowning thy pale brow
With a bright coronet, that thou hast woven
Of the stray sunbeams summer left behind.
Thou dost bend o’er it lovingly, and strive
To answer in a cadence clear and sweet
As springs first whispers! In the valleys now
The flowers have faded, and the singing-birds
Greet thee no longer when thou wanderest forth
Through the dim forest; and yet thou dost smile,
And skip as lightly o’er the withered grass,
As if thou hadst not decked thee in the robes
That thy dead sister’s wore in festal hours!