Child of November, you were born to death: Dull, heavy skies mourning the autumn's flame, Wan, spectral trees begging with every breath For shrouds of snow to shield the rattling frame. The withered glories like a tattered shawl Cling to the house and fray upon each breeze. Dusk lengthens shadows earlier on the wall. Shall you resign to contemplating these? Run, child, and lay a fire upon the stone. Hear how it crackles! How the windows glow! You cannot see the drab, nor hear one moan. And light's reflected on the spectral row. Though outer whisperings of death begin, See, child, there is no fear when flame's within. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SEA LOVER by SARA TEASDALE MUJER by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS PIANO by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE AULD ROBIN GRAY by ANNE LINDSAY EPITAPH INTENDED FOR SIR ISAAC NEWTON, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY by ALEXANDER POPE LITTLE BELL by THOMAS WESTWOOD |