COME old November, since again We meet upon a withered plain, Give me thy hand -- I'll not repine, Perhaps thy influence is divine. Yet such thy rude and wild career, Such are thy ruins of the year: I'd almost stoop and bless the hour, To see the[e] robbed of so much power. A few days past the fields were green, And every beauty might be seen; The flower and vine ambitious vied, In charms of youth and summer's pride: The woods and fields were gaily dressed, And musick soothed the mind to rest. But now, alas! the scene is changed, And nature almost seems deranged. In throwing round thy frosty spear, The vine and leaves, the grass and ear; The woods, and plains, and village green, Reflect a dull and blighted sheen. Thus early summer's blossoms fade -- Thus the bower, and thus the shade -- The songsters of the woods are still, No longer echo to the rill -- And such is man -- his prime today, To-morrow sees him swept away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FIRESIDE by NATHANIEL COTTON THE SAND-MAN by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE; A LEGEND OF FRANCE by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM TWELVE SONNETS: 10. THY WHITENESS by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) ON READING THE 'RUBAIYAT' OF OMAR KHAYYAM IN A KENTISH ROSE GARDEN by MATHILDE BLIND |