November

A hint of slumber in the wind, A dreamful stir of blades and stalks, As tenderly the twilight flows Down all my garden walks. My robes of work are thrown aside, The odor of the grass is sweet; The pleasure of a day well spent Bathes me from head to feet. Calmly I wait the dreary change,-- The season cutting sharp and sheer Through the wan bowers of death that fringe The border of the year. And while I muse, the fated earth Into a colder current dips,-- Feels winter's scourge, with summer's kiss Still warm upon her lips.