november.
87
He was a man, whose rugged way
Still led thro' paths of sorrow,
Still dark and joyless rose his day,
Still did he fear to-morrow!
November low'r'd, the moaning wind
Breath'd sadness on a sadden'd mind!
Why did he listen, for it told
In whispers, low, and faint, and cold,
Of perish'd hope, of that still sleep
Which never wakes to groan and weep?
He heard alas!—And now the gust
Wails loudly o'er his mouldering dust!
Still led thro' paths of sorrow,
Still dark and joyless rose his day,
Still did he fear to-morrow!
November low'r'd, the moaning wind
Breath'd sadness on a sadden'd mind!
Why did he listen, for it told
In whispers, low, and faint, and cold,
Of perish'd hope, of that still sleep
Which never wakes to groan and weep?
He heard alas!—And now the gust
Wails loudly o'er his mouldering dust!
November, Fancy's wayward child
Speaks to thee now,—full well she knows
That fraught for her, with omens wild,
Heavy thy breath's dank vapour blows!
Speaks to thee now,—full well she knows
That fraught for her, with omens wild,
Heavy thy breath's dank vapour blows!
