NOVEMBER
by: Hartley Coleridge (1796-1849)
- HE 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 chrystal quaintly glass'd,
- Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past,
- And makes a little summer where it grows:
- In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief 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.
"November" is reprinted
from Poems by Hartley Coleridge. Hartley Coleridge. Leeds:
F.E. Bingley, 1833. |
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