Tramping a-chill and shivering,
Except these pine cones for a blaze,—
Except a fog which follows,
And stuffs up all the hollows,—
Except a hoar frost here and there,—
Except some shooting stars,
Which dart their luminous cars,
Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air.
(October, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws into the background, while November throws her pine cones on the fire and sits down listlessly.)
November.