XLIX
November
Besides the autumn poets sing,A few prosaic daysA little this side of the snowAnd that side of the haze.
A few incisive mornings,A few ascetic eyes,—Gone Mr. Bryant’s golden-rod,And Mr. Thomson’s sheaves.
Still is the bustle in the brook,Sealed are the spicy valves;Mesmeric fingers softly touchThe eyes of many elves.
Perhaps a squirrel may remain,My sentiments to share.Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,Thy windy will to bear!