Gray November

Dull, dimly gleaming, The dawn looks downward Where, flowing townward, The river, steaming With mist, is hidden: Each bush, that huddles Beside the road, the rain has pooled with puddles, Seems, in the fog, a hag or thing hag-ridden. II. Where leaves hang tattered In forest tangles, And woodway angles Are acorn-scattered, Coughing and yawning The woodsman slouches, Or stands as silent as the hound that crouches Beside him, ghostly in the mist-drenched dawning. III. Through roses, rotting Within the garden, With blooms, that harden, Of marigolds, knotting, (Each one an ember Dull, dead and dripping,) Her brow, from which their faded wreath is slipping, Mantled in frost and fog, comes in November.