 | [A November picture, in Through the Year with the Poets] November |  |
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A NOVEMBER PICTURE.
From hour to hour we only looked to findThe once bright empire of our woodland world
In one huge, snake-like mist malignly furled;
It frowned, unbreathed on of the healthful wind,
Like venomed misery round an abject mind,
All landmarks now outblotted and o'errolled
By serpent-darkness, gathering fold on fold,
Till the whole strangled scene grew blank and blind.
Hour after hour we drew half-stifled breath,
While the chill Horror grew more weird and wild;
Earth glimmered vaguely through her wan despair,
And Heaven! ah, me! could heaven be radiant there,
Beyond the grimness of that mist defiled,
That silent curse, that creeping, ambushed Death!
Paul Hamilton Hayne.
| [A November picture, in Through the Year with the Poets] November | |