'T was in November, when fine days are few,
And the far mountains wax a little hoary,
And clap a white cape on their mantles blue;[Y]
And the sea dashes round the promontory,
And the loud breaker boils against the rock,
And sober suns must set at five o'clock.
CXXXV.
'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night;[Z]
No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud
By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright