November

Much have I spoken of the faded leaf; 
    Long have I listened to the wailing wind, 
And watched it ploughing through the heavy clouds, 
    For autumn charms my melancholy mind. 
 
When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge:
    The year must perish; all the flowers are dead; 
The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail 
    Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled! 
 
Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer, 
    The holly-berries and the ivy-tree:
They weave a chaplet for the Old Year’s bier, 
    These waiting mourners do not sing for me! 
 
I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods, 
    Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss; 
The naked, silent trees have taught me this,—

    The loss of beauty is not always loss!