NOVEMBER EVENING

COME, for the dusk is our own; let us fare forth to- gether,

With a quiet delight in our hearts for the ripe, still, autumn weather,

Through the rustling valley and wood and over the crisping meadow,

Under a high-sprung sky, winnowed of mist and shadow.

Sharp is the frosty air, and through the far hill-gaps

showing Lucent sunset lakes of crocus and green are glowing; ’Tis the hour to walk at will in a wayward, unfettered

roaming, Caring for naught save the charm, elusive and swift,

of the gloaming.

Watchful and stirless the fields as if not unkindly hold- ing Harvested joys in their clasp, and to their broad bos-

oms folding Baby hopes of a Spring, trusted to motherly keeping, Thus to be cherished and happed through the long months of their sleeping.

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