November

Words: Elizabeth Stoddard
Vocal Recording: MP3 / OGG

Source: Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  An American Anthology, 1787–1900.  1900. 
Located at Bartleby.com: November, http://www.bartleby.com/248/424.html
Accessed November 16, 2006 

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.

When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge:
  The year must perish; all the flowers are dead;    
The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail    
  Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled!

Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer,    
  The holly-berries and the ivy-tree:
They weave a chaplet for the Old Year’s bier,    
  These waiting mourners do not sing for me!

I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods,    
  Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss;    
The naked, silent trees have taught me this,—
  The loss of beauty is not always loss!

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