MARJORIE L.C. PICKTHALL
1883 - 1922 GB / Canada
November
IT is the time of vapours salt and chill,
And hoar-frost whitening all the fallen leaves,
No gleam there is of golden mellowing sheaves,
No south-bound bird-folk whistle high and shrill.
For now by barren banks the river grieves
Brown’d with dead water-stems and flowers, and still
The sad wind-voices sob about the eaves,
And far, faint echoes call upon the hill.
O stern November, in the hodden gray,
I see thee sitting by a yon tree, which shows
But one red berry to the unruffled pond.
Westward in deepening glory dies the day,
And lights with tenderer gleams the withered rose,
And stalks of earlier summer reared beyond.
1883 - 1922 GB / Canada
November
IT is the time of vapours salt and chill,
And hoar-frost whitening all the fallen leaves,
No gleam there is of golden mellowing sheaves,
No south-bound bird-folk whistle high and shrill.
For now by barren banks the river grieves
Brown’d with dead water-stems and flowers, and still
The sad wind-voices sob about the eaves,
And far, faint echoes call upon the hill.
O stern November, in the hodden gray,
I see thee sitting by a yon tree, which shows
But one red berry to the unruffled pond.
Westward in deepening glory dies the day,
And lights with tenderer gleams the withered rose,
And stalks of earlier summer reared beyond.