The wind and the shutter hum sad an old tune,
A cloud o’er the heavens is leisurely walking,
A few early snowflakes are vexing the moon.
Pale Luna! your countenance seemeth too sober,
But why should I murmur or wonder at this?
The flame of the woodland died out with October,
The birds, too, are gone—there is something I miss.
I stir down the embers, and here in the firelight
I read the home paper a late train has brought,
And into the lives of the absent an insight