November Poem by Maurice Thompson

A hint of slumber in the wind,
A dreamful stir of blades and stalks,
As tenderly the twilight flows
Down all my garden walks.


My robes of work are thrown aside,
The odor of the grass is sweet;
The pleasure of a day well spent
Bathes me from head to feet.


Calmly I wait the dreary change,-
The season cutting sharp and sheer
Through the wan bowers of death that fringe
The border of the year.


And while I muse, the fated earth
Into a colder current dips,-
Feels winter's scourge, with summer's kiss
Still warm upon her lips.