 | Poems by Maurice Thompson |  |
84
NOVEMBER.
A hint of slumber in the wind,
A dreamful stir of blades and stalks,
As tenderly the twilight flows
Down all my garden walks.
A dreamful stir of blades and stalks,
As tenderly the twilight flows
Down all my garden walks.
My robes of work are thrown aside,
The odor of the grass is sweet;
The pleasure of a day well spent
Bathes me from head to feet.
The odor of the grass is sweet;
The pleasure of a day well spent
Bathes me from head to feet.
Calmly I wait the dreary change,—
The season cutting sharp and sheer
Through the wan bowers of death that fringe
The border of the year.
The season cutting sharp and sheer
Through the wan bowers of death that fringe
The border of the year.
And while I muse, the fated earth
Into a colder current dips,—
Feels winter's scourge, with summer's kiss
Still warm upon her lips.
Into a colder current dips,—
Feels winter's scourge, with summer's kiss
Still warm upon her lips.
| Poems by Maurice Thompson | |