Maurice Thompson

November

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A hint of slumber in the wind,
A dreamful stir of blades and stalks,
As tenderly the twilight flows
Down all my garden walks.


My robes of work are thrown aside,
The odor of the grass is sweet;
The pleasure of a day well spent
Bathes me from head to feet.


Calmly I wait the dreary change,--
The season cutting sharp and sheer
Through the wan bowers of death that fringe
The border of the year.


And while I muse, the fated earth
Into a colder current dips,--
Feels winter's scourge, with summer's kiss
Still warm upon her lips.

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Maurice Thompson