Dim, through sunny mists the trees uplift their branches bare and brown;

Winds are hushed, and skies are soft and grey, and grassy slopes are sere,—

Calm and sweet and still, ah! sure is this the twilight of the year.

II.

There is this in these November days, the message that is sent—

Peace undying, rest, and sweet and measureless content;

Life's wild fever over, sleep's soft mood enchanting, such as fills

Golden dreams of gods immortal, sits enthroned upon these hills.

III.

Offered in day's golden chalice, sweet and dreamy peace is mine;