November
Leaves from the elm trees flying—
Summer to autumn flown—
Out on the lawn is lying
Mulberry's golden gown.
Never a bird is singing,
Never a plant has bloom,
Only the fantails winging
White on the windy gloom.
We can no more remember
Perfume of rose or hay;
Far from this dark November
Beauty has passed away.
Not till the Spring recapture
Joy as it flits along,
Shall we regain the rapture
Either of scent or song!
Summer to autumn flown—
Out on the lawn is lying
Mulberry's golden gown.
Never a bird is singing,
Never a plant has bloom,
Only the fantails winging
White on the windy gloom.
We can no more remember
Perfume of rose or hay;
Far from this dark November
Beauty has passed away.
Not till the Spring recapture
Joy as it flits along,
Shall we regain the rapture
Either of scent or song!
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