November

How like a hooded friar, bent and grey,     Whose pensive lips speak only when they pray     Doth sad November pass upon his way.     Through forest aisles while the wind chanteth low -     In God's cathedral where the great trees grow,     Now all day long he paceth to and fro.     When shadows gather and the night-mists rise,     Up to the hills he lifts his sombre eyes     To where the last red rose of sunset lies.     A little smile he weareth, wise and cold,     The smile of one to whom all things are old,     And life is weary, as a tale twice told.     "Come see," he seems to say - "where joy has fled -     The leaves that burned but yesterday so red     Have turned to ashes - and the flowers are dead.     "The summer's green and gold hath taken flight,     October days have gone. Now bleached and white     Winter doth come with many a lonely night.     "And though the people will not heed or stay,     But pass with careless laughter on their way,     Even I, with rain of tears, will wait and pray."