Metcalf, November Mist, 1922
NOVEMBER
Each sapless leaf that lingers here
Where bare woods mourn
Shall soon upon Wind’s silvery bier
Be gravewards borne.
The bees have left our honey-bowers,
The birds are fled;
And ’neath the blight of frost our flowers
Have fallen—dead!
Yon meadow now, where grass grew green,
No grazing yields:
No bells are heard, no flocks are seen
In far, fenced fields.
Where children played till all the ground
Was wet with dew,
Autumn, to-day, with threatening sound
Snow trumpets blew.
Fear not November’s challenge bold—
We’ve books and friends;
And hearths that never can grow cold:
These make amends!
Alexander Louis Fraser
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