 | Poems (1797) |  |
169
SONNET III. To NOVEMBER.
Dismal November! me it soothes to viewAt parting day, the scanty foliage fall
From the wet fruit tree; or the grey stone wall
Whose cold films glisten with unwholesome dew;
To watch the sweepy mists from the dank earth
Enfold the neighbouring copse; while, as they pass,
The silent rain-drop bends the long rank grass,
Which wraps some blossom's unmatured birth.
And thro' my Cot's lone lattice glimmering grey
Thy damp chill evenings have a charm for me,
Dismal November! for strange vacancy
Summoneth then my very heart away!
'Till from mist-hidden spire comes the slow knell
And says, that in the still air Death doth dwell!
| Poems (1797) | |