NOVEMBER.
Besides the autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And 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 touch The 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!
