Explore "In November" by Madison Cawein on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
/ No windy white of wind-blown clouds is thine, / No windy white but low and sodden gray, / That holds the melancholy skies and kills / The wild song and the wild bird; yet, ai me! / Thy melancholy skies and mournful woods, / Brown, sighing forests dying that I love! / Thy long thick leaves deep, deep about my feet, / Slow, weary feet that halt or falter on; / Thy long, sweet, reddened leaves that burn and die / With silent fever of the sickened wold.
/ I love to hear in all thy windy coigns, / Rain-wet and choked with bleached and rotting weeds, / The baby-babble of the many leaves, / That, fallen on barren ways, like fallen hopes / Once held so high on all the Summer's heart / Of strong majestic trees, now come to such, / Would fainly gossip in hushed undertones, -- / Sad weak yet sweet as natures that have known / True tears and hot in bleak remorseless days, -- / Of all their whilom glory vanished so.