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November

The gorse is rusting; dust on wayside verdure lies;
Hedge hawthorns heavily hang down snow festoons;
On purple mountains steadily melt those other snows;
Ever the noonday sky in darkening azure burns;
The airy willows muffled now in wadded robes,
A deeper sigh of wind resounds through denser boughs;
Thickly the grass to leaf, to seed, to hay matures;
The sturdy lambs have given over nursery games,
And reverend cattle wait their hour in grave repose.

Thus in young summer green-wreathed earth prepares
Her year-long increment, and fills her wealthy stores,
Made ready, all unwitting, for the sacrifice.…
Thou, heart of man, thou knowest thy dear joys
Are richly added to thee, not to clutch the prize;
These, in due season, presently, thou offerest likewise.