Rainy November is here, So melancholy and drear; Saddest month of all the year. Ceased is all the harvest din, For the crops are gathered in Barn and cellar, crib and bin. Shorter too the days have grown; The feathered songsters all have flown To a warmer, milder zone. In the woodland dells and on Hill-side, meadow, field and lawn, Flowers have withered, all, and gone. Naked too the trees appear, Meadow-land is brown and sere. Old and faded is the year. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EUROPE A PROPHECY by WILLIAM BLAKE THE SEASONS: A HYMN by JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748) THE MARTYR OF BRUSSELS by HENRY CHAPPELL CONQUERING RIVERS by ALAN CREIGHTON THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON AN AUTUMN PICTURE by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER LINES OCCASIONED BY RIVINGTON'S NEW TITUAL TYPES ... by PHILIP FRENEAU |