November

The mellow year is hasting to its close:
The little birds have almost sung their last,
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast --
That shrill piped harbinger of early snows --
The patient beauty of the scentless rose,
Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed,
Hangs a pale mourner for the summer past,
And makes a little summer where it grows --
In the chill sunbeam of the faint day
The dusky waters shudder as they shine;
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way
Of oozy brooks which no deep banks define,
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine.

Hartley Coleridge

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