And fair the days of sunshine-flooded hours
We would not always have the summer here,—
We tire of flowers.
Let come a short October afternoon,
Or yet a dreary day November sends;—
A mist hangs o’er the tired earth, and soon
The night descends.
Like some cowled monk grown weary of the world,
The evening creeps along in somber guise,
Her face in misty shadows thickly furled