November

THE mellow year is hasting to its close: The little birds have almost sung their last, Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast -- That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows; -- The patient beauty of the scentless rose, Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, Hangs a pale mourner for the summer past, And makes a little summer where it grows; -- In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day The dusky waters shudder as they shine; The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define, And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine.