IN NOVEMBER

No windy white of wind-blown clouds is thine!

No windy white, but low and sodden gray,

That holds the melancholy skies and kills

The wild song and the wild-bird. Yet, ah me!

Thy melancholy skies and mournful woods,

Brown, sighing forests dying that I love!

Thy long, dead leaves, deep, deep about my feet,

Slow, dragging feet that halt or wander on;

Thy deep, sweet, crimson leaves that burn and die