Evening Poetry, November 25

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.

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