 | The ghost's entry and other poems |  |
I
IN NOVEMBER WOODS
How drearily the cold rain shakes the boughs(A constant shiver rises everywhere),
Washing the gold and crimson glory out
From all the enchanted trees! while fitfully fall
The dead leaves, one by one, noiseless and slow,
Heavily down in paths that were all flowers;
Or, when the wet wind fills the solitude,
In silent clusters eddy to the ground.
Oh, sad and weary, to a weary heart,
The endless dying whisper of the rain,
And the slow answer of the November wind! ...
'Tis not the wind that flings quick sunny gleams
Through the dark, dewy, glad, green leaves of May,
To sprinkle flowers among the golden moss;
65
Crisping the river's wide and quiet blue,
Tangling the long grass round the heifer's bell,
Blowing the bees from roses in the sun,
And catching the young girl so mirthfully
She dreams the sprite her playmate, breaks away,
Laughs like a brook, and shakes her happy hair:
The Autumnal wind—the death-sigh of the Year!—
Among the troubled woods a wanderer lone,
Like one who has no friends and walks abroad
Through fallen, falling, ever-falling leaves!
| The ghost's entry and other poems | |