Explore "November" by Edith Nesbit on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Low lines of leaden clouds sweep by / Across the gold sun and blue sky, / Which still are there eternally.
Above the sodden garden-bed / Droop empty flower-stalks, dry and dead, / Where the tall lily bent its head / Over carnations white and red.
The leafless poplars, straight and tall, / Stand by the gray-green garden wall, / From which such rare fruit used to fall.
In the verandah, where of old / Sweet August spent the roses' gold, / Round the chill pillars, shivering, fold / Garlands of rose-thorns, sharp with cold.
And we, by cosy fireside, muse / On what the Fates grant, what refuse; / And what we waste and what we use.
Summer returns -- despite the rain / That weeps against the window-pane.
Who'd weep -- 'mid fame and golden gain -- / For youth, that does not come again?