AVTVMN
AVTVMN
SHRILLcocks salute the tardy dawnThat glimmers o’er the landscape blurred;Somewhere upon the barren lawnIs piping one lorn little bird—A robin red-breast, loath to leave,Although he only stays to grieve.The thresher’s flail rings clear and loudAll day long from the open barn;The pigeons on the rafters crowd,Torn is the spider’s silvery yarn.The frosts have left their ghostly printsUpon the meadow’s russet tints.Beneath the sunset’s lurid light,The pinewood holds its plumes of black—The pilot moon brings in the night,His white boat in a windy track—One tall, far spire across the land,In warning lifts a fiery hand.November, born to poverty,The winds are mournful with her prayer;A vagrant, pleading charity,And yet her hands are always bare;And still within her clouded eyesAre lurking dismal prophecies.Too late for Autumn’s golden wealth,The harvest-dance, the merry stir;Too soon for Winter’s lusty health,And yet our fond hearts welcome her;For ’tis her cold breath that first lightsThe happy household fire o’ nights.Susan Hartley Swett.
SHRILLcocks salute the tardy dawnThat glimmers o’er the landscape blurred;Somewhere upon the barren lawnIs piping one lorn little bird—A robin red-breast, loath to leave,Although he only stays to grieve.The thresher’s flail rings clear and loudAll day long from the open barn;The pigeons on the rafters crowd,Torn is the spider’s silvery yarn.The frosts have left their ghostly printsUpon the meadow’s russet tints.Beneath the sunset’s lurid light,The pinewood holds its plumes of black—The pilot moon brings in the night,His white boat in a windy track—One tall, far spire across the land,In warning lifts a fiery hand.November, born to poverty,The winds are mournful with her prayer;A vagrant, pleading charity,And yet her hands are always bare;And still within her clouded eyesAre lurking dismal prophecies.Too late for Autumn’s golden wealth,The harvest-dance, the merry stir;Too soon for Winter’s lusty health,And yet our fond hearts welcome her;For ’tis her cold breath that first lightsThe happy household fire o’ nights.Susan Hartley Swett.
SHRILLcocks salute the tardy dawnThat glimmers o’er the landscape blurred;Somewhere upon the barren lawnIs piping one lorn little bird—A robin red-breast, loath to leave,Although he only stays to grieve.
SHRILLcocks salute the tardy dawn
That glimmers o’er the landscape blurred;
Somewhere upon the barren lawn
Is piping one lorn little bird—
A robin red-breast, loath to leave,
Although he only stays to grieve.
The thresher’s flail rings clear and loudAll day long from the open barn;The pigeons on the rafters crowd,Torn is the spider’s silvery yarn.The frosts have left their ghostly printsUpon the meadow’s russet tints.
The thresher’s flail rings clear and loud
All day long from the open barn;
The pigeons on the rafters crowd,
Torn is the spider’s silvery yarn.
The frosts have left their ghostly prints
Upon the meadow’s russet tints.
Beneath the sunset’s lurid light,The pinewood holds its plumes of black—The pilot moon brings in the night,His white boat in a windy track—One tall, far spire across the land,In warning lifts a fiery hand.
Beneath the sunset’s lurid light,
The pinewood holds its plumes of black—
The pilot moon brings in the night,
His white boat in a windy track—
One tall, far spire across the land,
In warning lifts a fiery hand.
November, born to poverty,The winds are mournful with her prayer;A vagrant, pleading charity,And yet her hands are always bare;And still within her clouded eyesAre lurking dismal prophecies.
November, born to poverty,
The winds are mournful with her prayer;
A vagrant, pleading charity,
And yet her hands are always bare;
And still within her clouded eyes
Are lurking dismal prophecies.
Too late for Autumn’s golden wealth,The harvest-dance, the merry stir;Too soon for Winter’s lusty health,And yet our fond hearts welcome her;For ’tis her cold breath that first lightsThe happy household fire o’ nights.
Too late for Autumn’s golden wealth,
The harvest-dance, the merry stir;
Too soon for Winter’s lusty health,
And yet our fond hearts welcome her;
For ’tis her cold breath that first lights
The happy household fire o’ nights.
Susan Hartley Swett.
Susan Hartley Swett.