The Miracle and Other Poems by Virna Sheard
page 47 of 81 (58%)
page 47 of 81 (58%)
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NOVEMBER How like a hooded friar, bent and grey, Whose pensive lips speak only when they pray Doth sad November pass upon his way. Through forest aisles while the wind chanteth low-- In God's cathedral where the great trees grow, Now all day long he paceth to and fro. When shadows gather and the night-mists rise, Up to the hills he lifts his sombre eyes To where the last red rose of sunset lies. A little smile he weareth, wise and cold, The smile of one to whom all things are old, And life is weary, as a tale twice told. "Come see," he seems to say--"where joy has fled-- The leaves that burned but yesterday so red Have turned to ashes--and the flowers are dead. "The summer's green and gold hath taken flight, October days have gone. Now bleached and white Winter doth come with many a lonely night. "And though the people will not heed or stay, But pass with careless laughter on their way, Even I, with rain of tears, will wait and pray." |
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