The frosts have left their ghostly prints
Upon the meadow’s russet tints.
Beneath the sunset’s lurid light,
The pinewood holds its plumes of black—
The pilot moon brings in the night,
His white boat in a windy track—
One tall, far spire across the land,
In warning lifts a fiery hand.
November, born to poverty,
The winds are mournful with her prayer;