November
Old November, sere and brown,Clothes the country, haunts the town,Sheds its cloak of withered leaves,Brings its sighing, soughing breeze.Prophet of the dying year,Builder of its funeral bier,Bring your message here to men;Sound it forth that they may kenWhat of Life and what of DeathLinger on your frosty breath.Let men know to you are givenDays of thanks to God in heaven;Thanks for things which we deem best,Thanks, O God, for all the restThat have taught us—(trouble, strife,Bring thru Death a larger Life)—Death of our base self and fear—(Even as the dying year,Though through cold and frost, shall bringForth a new and glorious spring)—Shall shed over us the swayOf a new and brighter day,With Hope, Faith and Love alway.
