November

Who said November’s face was grim? 

    Who said her voice was harsh and sad?

I heard her sing in wood paths dim,

   I met her on the shore, so glad,

So smiling, I could kiss her feet!

There never was a month so sweet.



October’s splendid robes, that hid 

   The beauty of the white-limbed trees, 

Have dropped in tatters; yet amid 

   Those perfect forms the gazer sees

A proud wood-monarch here and there

Garments of wine-dipped crimson wear. 

In precious flakes the autumnal gold

    Is clinging to the forest’s fringe: 

Yon bare twig to the sun will hold 

   Each separate leaf, to show the tinge 

Of glorious rose-light reddening through 

Its jewels, beautiful as few. 

Where short-lived wild-flowers bloomed and died

   The slanting sunbeams fall across 

Vine-broideries, woven from side to side 

   Above mosaics of tinted moss.

So does the Eternal Artist’s skill

Hide beauty under beauty still. 

And, if no note of bee or bird

   Through the rapt stillness of the woods

Or the sea’s murmurous trance be heard,

    A Presence in these solitudes 

Upon the spirit seems to press

The dew of God’s dear silences.



And if, out of some inner heaven, 

    With soft relenting comes a day

Whereto the heart of June is given, —

   All subtle scents and spicery

Through forest crypts and arches steal, 

With power unnumbered hurts to heal. 

Through yonder rended veil of green, 

   That used to shut the sky from me, 

New glimpses of vast blue are seen; 

    I never guessed that so much sea

Bordered my little plot of ground,

And held me clasped so close around. 

  

This is the month of sunrise skies 

      Intense with molten mist and flame; 

Out of the purple deeps arrive 

      Colors no painter yet could name:

Gold-lilies and the cardinal-flower 

Were pale against this gorgeous hour. 

Still lovelier when athwart the east

      The level beam of sunset falls:

The tints of wild-flowers long deceased 

       Glow then upon the horizon walls; 

Shades of the rose and violet

Close to their dear world lingering yet. 

What idleness, to moan and fret 

       For any season fair, gone by! 

Life’s secret is not guessed at yet;

       Veil under veil its wonders lie. 

Through grief and loss made glorious 

The soul of past joy lives in us. 

More welcome than voluptous gales 

       This keen, crisp air, as conscience clear: 

November breathes no flattering tales;— 

       The plain truth-teller of the year, 

Who wins her heart, and he alone, 

Knows she has sweetness all her own.