The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and Thee, H. McE. Kimball. NOVEMBER. THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, the gloomy day. through all Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sister hood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones W. C. Bryant. again. |