Amends.

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