NOVEMBER

By Hartley Coleridge

Photo Courtesy of Wallpaperarchives

The mellow year is hastening to it's close;

The little birds have almost sung their last,

Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast--

That shrill piped harbinger of early snows;

The patient beauty of the scentless rose,

Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed,

Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past,

And makes a little summer where it grows;

In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day

The dusky waters shudder as they shine,

The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way 

Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define,

And the gaunt woods, in ragged scant array,

Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine.