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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