November

Red o’er the forest peers the setting sun; The line of yellow light dies fast away That crown’d the eastern copse; and chill and dun Falls on the moor the brief November day. Now the tired hunter winds a parting note, And Echo bids good-night from every glade; Yet wait awhile and see the calm leaves float Each to his rest beneath their parent shade. How like decaying life they seem to glide And yet no second spring have they in store; And where they fall, forgotten to abide Is all their portion, and they ask no more. Soon o’er their heads blithe April airs shall sing, A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold, The green buds glisten in the dews of Spring, And all be vernal rapture as of old. Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie, In all the world of busy life around No thought of them—in all the bounteous sky No drop, for them, of kindly influence found. Man’s portion is to die and rise again: Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain As his when Eden held his virgin heart.