| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 424. November |
| | | By Elizabeth Stoddard |
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| MUCH have I spoken of the faded leaf; | |
| Long have I listened to the wailing wind, | |
| And watched it ploughing through the heavy clouds, | |
| For autumn charms my melancholy mind. | |
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| When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge: | 5 |
| The year must perish; all the flowers are dead; | |
| The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail | |
| Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled! | |
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| Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer, | |
| The holly-berries and the ivy-tree: | 10 |
| They weave a chaplet for the Old Year’s bier, | |
| These waiting mourners do not sing for me! | |
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| I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods, | |
| Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss; | |
| The naked, silent trees have taught me this,— | 15 |
| The loss of beauty is not always loss! | |
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