Poetry Archives

November? ’tis a summer’s day!
  For tropic airs are blowing
As soft as whispered roundelay
From unseen lips that seem to say
  To feathered songsters going
To sunnier, southern climes afar,
“Stay where you are—stay where you are!”

And other tokens glad as these
  Declare that Summer lingers:
Round latent buds still hum the bees,
Slow fades the green from forest trees
  Ere Autumn’s artist fingers
Have touched the landscape, and instead
Brought out the amber, brown, and red.

The invalid may yet enjoy
  His favorite recreation,
Gay, romping girl, unfettered boy
In outdoor sports the time employ,
  And happy consummation
Of prudent plans the farmer know
Ere wintry breezes round him blow.

And they by poverty controlled—
  Good fortune shall betide them
As scenes of beauty they behold,
And seem to revel in the gold
  Which Plutus has denied them;
For, ah! the poor from want’s despair
Oft covet wealth they never share.