Poetry Archives

November woods are bare and still;
November days are clear and bright;
Each noon burns up the morning’s chill;
The morning’s snow is gone by night.
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,
As through the woods I reverent creep,
Watching all things lie “down to sleep.”

I never knew before what beds,
Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;
I never knew before how much
Of human sound there is in such
Low tones as through the forest sweep,
When all wild things lie “down to sleep.”

Each day I find new coverlids
Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight;
Sometimes the viewless mother bids
Her ferns kneel down full in my sight;
I hear their chorus of “good-night”;
And half I smile, and half I weep,
Listening while they lie “down to sleep.”

November woods are bare and still;
November days are bright and good;
Life’s noon burns up life’s morning chill;
Life’s night rests feet which long have stood;
Some warm soft bed, in field or wood,
The mother will not fail to keep,
Where we can “lay us down to sleep.”