November by Elizabeth Drew Stoddard

 Much have I spoken of the faded leaf;




Long have I listened to the wailing wind, 

And watched it ploughing through the heavy clouds, 
For autumn charms my melancholy mind. 
 

    The year must perish; all the flowers are dead; 
When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge:

    Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled! 
The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail 
 

They weave a chaplet for the Old Year’s bier, 
Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer, 
    The holly-berries and the ivy-tree:

    Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss; 
These waiting mourners do not sing for me! 
 
I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods, 

    The loss of beauty is not always loss!

The naked, silent trees have taught me this,—