November: A dirge / J.R. Ramsay

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