"Wild November" | Richard Henry Stoddard

Translation missing: en.sections.article.title: "Wild November" | Richard Henry Stoddard

The wild November come at last
Beneath a veil of rain;
The night wind blows its folds aside -
Her face is full of pain.

The latest of her race, she takes
The Autumn's vacant throne:
She has but one short moon to live,
And she must live alone.

A barren realm of withered fields,
Bleak woods, and falling leaves,
The palest morns that ever dawned;
The dreariest of eves.

It is no wonder that she comes,
Poor month! With tears of pain;
For what can one so hopeless do
But weep, and weep again?

"Wild November"

Richard Henry Stoddard | b. 1825 d. 1903

Collection: The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard, 1880