O wild November wind, blow back to me
The withered leaves, that drift adown the past;
Waft me some murmur of the summer sea,
On which youth's fairy fleet of dreams was cast;
Return to me the beautiful No More—
O wild November wind, restore, restore!
November wind, in what dim, loathsome cave,
Languish the tender-plumed gales of spring?
No more their dances dimple o'er the wave,
Nor freighted pinions song and perfume bring: