The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead...
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?...
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain,
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead...
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?...
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain,
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.
0 Comments