NOVEMBER
Nature has aged grown, her soft, white hair
Falls in dishevelled heaps about her face,
From which the careless smile is fled; nor trace
Of youthful beauty now remains, save where
The cold, destroying hand must fail to reach,
For, underneath this stern exterior,
Her heart beats warm; life far superior
To outward form abides within. With speech—
To which a trembling adds its charm—she stands
In rigid grace, and summons us to come,—
Not to hear her pronounce on earth, its doom,
But, from her feeble and uplifted hands,
Lets fall on us her blessing from on high,—
Then sweetly smiles again, and thus doth die.
Falls in dishevelled heaps about her face,
From which the careless smile is fled; nor trace
Of youthful beauty now remains, save where
The cold, destroying hand must fail to reach,
For, underneath this stern exterior,
Her heart beats warm; life far superior
To outward form abides within. With speech—
To which a trembling adds its charm—she stands
In rigid grace, and summons us to come,—
Not to hear her pronounce on earth, its doom,
But, from her feeble and uplifted hands,
Lets fall on us her blessing from on high,—
Then sweetly smiles again, and thus doth die.
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