November

Together we laughed and talked in the warm--lit room: Out now, alone I come Into the street, in the fall of the early night. Shadowy skies, with a pale uncertain gloom, Hover above the houses dim; but bright In wetness mirrored far, Retreating lamps outshine the lingering light. Hazily blue the air, heavy with dews The wind; and before me the cries and the crowd, And the sleepless murmur of wheels; not loud, For a magical softness all imbrues. The softness estranges my sense: I see and I hear, But know 'tis a vision intangible, shapes that seem. All is unreal; the sound of the falling of feet, Coming figures, and far--off hum of the street; A dream, the gliding hurry, the endless lights, Houses and sky, a dream, a dream!