November

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Title:     November
Author: Laurence Alma-Tadema [More Titles by Alma-Tadema]

The grey clouds hide the sun now
And the leaves flow down with the rain:
The golden days are done now
And Winter looms again.

'Tis bed-time for the seeds now
For the earth is weary of green:
She'll hide the very weeds now
Till nothing gay be seen.

Yet wait! it is not death now
That strips the meadow and grove:
The rose but holds her breath now
In the garden that we love:

'Tis sleep--the earth must rest now.
O Winter's a wondrous thing!
For she hides within her breast now
The jocund heart of Spring.

Fairseat.

[The end]
Laurence Alma-Tadema's poem: November

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