And now the trees endure the wind's vast words
In all their branches; scattered lines of birds
Let fall a doubtful music as they pass.
The nights are colder, and the last leaves die.
A murmur fills the acquiescent wood;
And where the star of drifting summer stood
A newer constellation holds the sky.
What grace exempts us, whose oblivious mood
Admits no change, grows docile to no reason?
What wind will tell the springing heart its season
Or bring a winter solstice to the blood?
- November by Alice Winifred Finnegan
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