Explore "Verses and Sonnets" by Hilaire Belloc on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
November is some historied Emperor, / Conquered in age, but foot to foot with fate, / Who from his refuge high has caught the roar / Of squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late, / Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war, / And arms the garrison of his last heir-loom, / And shakes the sky to its extremest shore / With battle against irrevocable doom.
Till, driven and hurled from his strong citadels, / He flies in hurrying cloud; and spurs him on / Empty of lingerings, empty of farewells / And final benedictions, and is gone. / But in my garden all the trees have shed / Their legacies of the light, and all the flowers are dead.