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XLIX. November

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Besides the autumn poets sing,

A few prosaic days

A little this side of the snow

And that side of the haze.


A few incisive mornings,

A few ascetic eyes, —

Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod,

And Mr. Thomson's sheaves.


Still is the bustle in the brook,

Sealed are the spicy valves;

Mesmeric fingers softly touch

The eyes of many elves.


Perhaps a squirrel may remain,

My sentiments to share.

Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,

Thy windy will to bear!

Dickinson: The Complete Works

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