November
by Emily Dickinson
Besides the autumn poet sings,
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the haze.
A few incisive mornings,
A few ascetic eyes,–
Gone Mr. Bryant’s goldenrod,
And Mr. Thomson’s sheaves,
Still is the bustle in the brook,
Sealed are the spicy valves;
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The eyes of many elves.
Perhaps a squirrel may remain,
My sentiments to share.
Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,
Thy windy will to bear.
You can find this poem in Hope is the Thing With Feathers.
