Volume Iii Part 19 (2/2)

The sentry sun, that glared so long O'erhead, deserts his summer post; Ay, you may brew it hot and strong: ”The joys of winter”--come, a toast!

s.h.i.+ne on the kangaroo, thou sun!

Make far New Zealand faint with fear!

Don't hurry back to spoil our fun, Thank goodness, old October's here!

Thomas Constable [1812-1881]

NOVEMBER

When thistle-blows do lightly float About the pasture-height, And shrills the hawk a parting note, And creeps the frost at night, Then hilly ho! though singing so, And whistle as I may, There comes again the old heart pain Through all the livelong day.

In high wind creaks the leafless tree And nods the fading fern; The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be, And cold the sun does burn.

Then ho, hollo! though calling so, I cannot keep it down; The tears arise unto my eyes, And thoughts are chill and brown.

Far in the cedars' dusky stoles, Where the sere ground-vine weaves, The partridge drums funereal rolls Above the fallen leaves.

And hip, hip, ho! though cheering so, It stills no whit the pain; For drip, drip, drip, from bare-branch tip, I hear the year's last rain.

So drive the cold cows from the hill, And call the wet sheep in; And let their stamping clatter fill The barn with warming din.

And ho, folk, ho! though it be so That we no more may roam, We still will find a cheerful mind Around the fire at home!

C. L. Cleaveland [18--? ]

NOVEMBER

Hark you such sound as quivers? Kings will hear, As kings have heard, and tremble on their thrones; The old will feel the weight of mossy stones; The young alone will laugh and scoff at fear.

It is the tread of armies marching near, From scarlet lands to lands forever pale; It is a bugle dying down the gale; It is the sudden gus.h.i.+ng of a tear.

And it is hands that grope at ghostly doors; And romp of spirit-children on the pave; It is the tender sighing of the brave Who fell, ah! long ago, in futile wars; It is such sound as death; and, after all, 'Tis but the forest letting dead leaves fall.

Mahlon Leonard Fisher [1874-

STORM FEAR

When the wind works against us in the dark, And pelts with snow The lower chamber window on the east, And whispers with a sort of stifled bark, The beast, ”Come out! Come out!”-- It costs no inward struggle not to go, Ah, no!

I count our strength, Two and a child, Those of us not asleep subdued to mark How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,-- How drifts are piled, Dooryard and road ungraded, Till even the comforting barn grows far away And my heart owns a doubt Whether 'tis in us to arise with day And save ourselves unaided.

Robert Frost [1875-

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