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William Miller

November.

Infant Winter, young November,
Nursling of the glowing woods,
Lo! the sleep is burst that bound thee---
Lift thine eyes above, around thee,
Infant sire of storm and floods.

Through the tangled green and golden
Curtains of thy valley bed,
See the trees hath vied to woo thee,
And with homage to subdue thee---
Show'ring bright leaves o'er thy head.

Let, oh! let their fading glories
Grace the earth while still they may,
For the poplar's-orange, gleaming,
And the beech's ruddy beaming,
Warmer seems to make the day.

Now the massy plane-leaf's twirling,
Down the misty morning light,
And the saugh-tree's tinted treasure
Seems to seek the earth with pleasure---
Show'ring down from morn till night.
Through the seasons, ever varying,
Rapture fills the human soul;
Blessed dower! to mankind given,
All is perfect under heaven,
In the part as in the whole.

Hush'd the golden flute of mavis,
Silver pipe of little wren,
But the readbreast's notes are ringing,
And its "weel-kent" breast is bringing
Storied boyhood back again.

Woodland splendour of November,
Did departing Autumn dye
All thy foliage, that when roamin'
We might pictur'd---see her gloamin'
In thy woods as in her sky.

Jun 2, 2007


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