The purple of early November
Lies like a dream on the hill;
In this basking hollow of woodland
The berry-vines glitter and thrill,
And a maple is hushed to remember
Tranced days of quiet September,
And the gold that she used to spill.

My feet through the wood-path bearing
Are an alien noise in the dale,
Stirring to wings of terror
A partridge or two from the trail;
So with my uncourteous daring
I have hindered their leisurely faring,
The pretty brown birds of the dale.

I am humbled and full of repentance
For my race's enmity,
That these gentle-eyed wood-creatures
Should whir from their hostelry;
And I fain would make their acquaintance
That they should reverse the sentence
And not be afraid of me.

A tawny squirrel comes whisking
Around the bole of a tree,
With his bright shy look untroubled
And his tail a-quiver with glee;
I am glad of his billowy risking,
The trustful heart of his frisking;
And I thank my brother the squirrel,
For his friendliness to me.