NOVEMBER SUNSHINE.
O affluent Sun, unwilling to abate
Thy bounteous hospitality benign,
Whenas we deemed the banquet o'er, thy great
Gold flagon brims again with amber wine;
Whenas we thought t' have seen on plain and hill
Thy euthanasia in October's haze,
The blessing of thy light, unstinted still,
Irradiates the drear November days.
Naught can discourage thee, O thurifer
Of gladness to the else benighted face
Of the misfeatured earth; fit minister
Of Him whose love illumines every place,
Who pours His mercy forth without demur
Over the sins and sorrows of our race.
SHORT DAYS.
Now is the Sun, erst spendthrift of his rays
And lavish of his largesses of light,
Become a miser in his latter days,
An avaricious dotard, alter'd quite.
Is he the same that all the summer long
Strew'd with ungrudging hand his gleaming gold?
Can such ill grace to high estate belong?
Can bright be dim? can warm so soon be cold?
Ay, but he goes his parsimonious way,
And hoards his shining treasures from the view,
And garners up his riches 'gainst the day
When Earth, the prodigal, shall beg anew;
Then to her need he'll give no niggard dole,
But wealth incalculable, heart and soul.
THE BEGINNING OF WINTER.