A November Day

By Mary B. C. Slade

I come, a sad November day,
Gray clad from foot to head;
A few late leaves of yellow birch,
A few of maple red.

And, should you look, you might descry
Some wee ferns, hiding low,
Or late Fall dandelions shy,
Where cold winds cannot blow.

And then, you see, I’m not all gray;
A little golden light
Shines on a sad November day,
A promise for the night.

For though gray-clad, in soft gray mist,
Floating on gray-cloud wing,
I know that I the way prepare
For brightest days of Spring.

And though witch-hazel’s golden flowers
Are all the blooms I know,
They promise—so do I—the hours
When sweetest Mayflowers grow.

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