November

BESIDES the autumn poets sing,

      A few prosaic days

A little this side of the snow

And that side of the haze.

A few incisive mornings,

A few ascetic eves,—

Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod,

And Mr. Thomson's sheaves.

Still is the bustle in the brook,

Sealed are the spicy valves;

Mesmeric fingers softly touch

The eyes of many elves.

Perhaps a squirrel may remain,

My sentiments to share.

Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,

Thy windy will to bear!