Normale Version: November: Now the last leaves are hanging on the trees
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Now the last leaves are hanging on the trees,
And very few the flowers that glint along
The deep dark lanes and braes, erewhile as throng
With peeping posies as the limes with bees;

Nought in the garden but stiff sticks of peas,
And climbing weeds inextricably strong;
And scare a fragment of autumnal song
Whistles above the surly morning breeze.

Yet still at eve we hear the merry owl,
That sings not sweetly, but he does his best;
The little brown bird with the scarlet vest

Chirrups away, thought distant storms do howl.
Then let us not at dark November scowl,
But wait for Christmas with a cheerful breast.