November

By William Wallace Maxim

The low dull, hollow sound within the forest,
The leafy tree that seems to stand aghast
Beside the ghostly lines of flickering shadow,
Proclaim the summer gone, the harvest past.

The rustling reeds that erst gave up their juices
To sighing winds, are standing stark and gray;
Health breezes blow among the pines and spruces,
And down the rocky leaf-strewn gorges play.