 | The poems of Celia Thaxter |  |
41
NOVEMBER
There is no wind at all to-night
To dash the drops against the pane;
No sound abroad, nor any light,
And sadly falls the autumn rain;
To dash the drops against the pane;
No sound abroad, nor any light,
And sadly falls the autumn rain;
There is no color in the world,
No lovely tint on hill or plain;
The summer's golden sails are furled,
And sadly falls the autumn rain.
No lovely tint on hill or plain;
The summer's golden sails are furled,
And sadly falls the autumn rain.
The earth lies tacitly beneath,
As it were dead to joy or pain:
It does not move, it does not breathe,—
And sadly falls the autumn rain.
As it were dead to joy or pain:
It does not move, it does not breathe,—
And sadly falls the autumn rain.
And all my heart is patient too,
I wait till it shall wake again;
The songs of spring shall sound anew,
Though sadly falls the autumn rain.
I wait till it shall wake again;
The songs of spring shall sound anew,
Though sadly falls the autumn rain.
| The poems of Celia Thaxter | |