And November sad,—a psalm
Tender, trustful, full of balm,
Thou must breathe in spirits calm.
Caroline May
The wild November comes at last
Beneath a veil of rain,
The night wind blows its folds aside—
Her face is full of pain.
The latest of her race, she takes
The Autumn's vacant throne;
She has but one short moon to live,
And she must live alone.
R. H. Stoddard
