Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
To NovemberCharles Lloyd (1775–1839)
D
At parting day, the scanty foliage fall
From the wet fruit-tree; or the gray stone-wall,
Whose cold films glisten with unwholesome dew;
To watch the yellow mists from the dank earth
Enfold the neighboring copse; while, as they pass,
The silent rain-drops bend the long rank grass,
Which wraps some blossom’s unmaturéd birth.
And through my cot’s lone lattice, glimmering gray,
The damp, chill evenings have a charm for me,
Dismal November! for strange vacancy
Summoneth then my very heart away!
Till from mist-hidden spire comes the slow knell,
And says, that in the still air Death doth dwell!