November

Who said November’s face was grim? Who said her voice was harsh and sad? I heard her sing in wood paths dim, I met her on the shore, so glad, So smiling, I could kiss her feet! There never was a month so sweet. October’s splendid robes, that hid The beauty of the white-limbed trees, Have dropped in tatters; yet amid Those perfect forms the gazer sees A proud wood-monarch here and there Garments of wine-dipped crimson wear. In precious flakes the autumnal gold Is clinging to the forest’s fringe: Yon bare twig to the sun will hold Each separate leaf, to show the tinge Of glorious rose-light reddening through Its jewels, beautiful as few. Where short-lived wild-flowers bloomed and died The slanting sunbeams fall across Vine-broideries, woven from side to side Above mosaics of tinted moss. So does the Eternal Artist’s skill Hide beauty under beauty still. And, if no note of bee or bird Through the rapt stillness of the woods Or the sea’s murmurous trance be heard, A Presence in these solitudes Upon the spirit seems to press The dew of God’s dear silences. And if, out of some inner heaven, With soft relenting comes a day Whereto the heart of June is given, — All subtle scents and spicery Through forest crypts and arches steal, With power unnumbered hurts to heal. Through yonder rended veil of green, That used to shut the sky from me, New glimpses of vast blue are seen; I never guessed that so much sea Bordered my little plot of ground, And held me clasped so close around. This is the month of sunrise skies Intense with molten mist and flame; Out of the purple deeps arrive Colors no painter yet could name: Gold-lilies and the cardinal-flower Were pale against this gorgeous hour. Still lovelier when athwart the east The level beam of sunset falls: The tints of wild-flowers long deceased Glow then upon the horizon walls; Shades of the rose and violet Close to their dear world lingering yet. What idleness, to moan and fret For any season fair, gone by! Life’s secret is not guessed at yet; Veil under veil its wonders lie. Through grief and loss made glorious The soul of past joy lives in us. More welcome than voluptous gales This keen, crisp air, as conscience clear: November breathes no flattering tales;— The plain truth-teller of the year, Who wins her heart, and he alone, Knows she has sweetness all her own.