November
(Entering and shutting the door)
Nought have I to bring,
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.)
The earth lies asleep, grown tired
Of all that’s high or deep;
There’s nought desired and nought required
Save a sleep.
I rock the cradle of the earth,
I lull her with a sigh;
And know that she will wake to mirth
By and by.
(Through the window December is seen running and leaping in the direction of the door. He knocks.)
Ah, here’s my youngest brother come at last:
(Calls out without rising.)
(He opens the door and enters, loaded with evergreens in berry, etc.)