November Night
Listen …
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
And fall.
This poem is in the public domain.
Every day, Every day, Tell the hours By their shadows, By their shadows.
These be three silent things: The falling snow . . . the hour Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one Just dead.
I know
Not these my hands
And yet I think there was
A woman like me once had hands
Like these.