November: A dirge
Departing wild birds gather
On the high branches, ere they haste away,
Singing their farewell to the frigid ether
And fading day,
To sport no more on withered mead or heather;
No longer gay.
The little cricket's singing
Sounds lonely in the crisp and yellow leaves,
Like bygone tones of tenderness upbringing
A thought that grieves :
A bell upon a ruined turret ringing
On Sabbath eves.
The tempest-loving raven,
Pilot of storms across the silent sky,
Soars loftily along the heaving heaven
With doleful cry,
Uttering lone dirges. Thistle-beards are driven
Where the winds sigh.
And yet here is a flower
Still lingering, by the changing season spared,
And a lone bird within a leafless bower
Two friends, who dared
To share the shadows of misfortune's hour,
Though unprepared.
~~
J.R. Ramsay (1879-1904)
from Win-on-ah, or, The forest light; and other poems, 1869
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
J.R. Ramsay biography
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