** A garden is the jewel^casket of Nature, wherein she stores 

 her fairest gems, living and fragrant*** 



E. CASTLEMERE. 



NOVEMBER 



When come November days with all their sadness, 



Dead leaves, and mist, the ever-falling rain ; 

 No rose in any garden speaks of gladness, 



No bird in any woodland sings its strain. 

 Sad as good-night across the darkness spoken, 



When fall apart the hands to meet no more ; 

 When with a grief the heart is well-nigh broken, 



To think that sight of face and hope is o'er. 

 November days ! November days ! 



November days, dear hearts, will clear and pass ; 

 Spring blossoms wait beneath the withered grass ; 

 Trust on ! hope on ! tho' mist the world may fill, 

 The golden sun tho' hid is shining still ! 



In life's November list we for hush'd voices ; 



Across the mist eyes ever watch and wait 

 For one loved coming, and the heart rejoices, 



With Springtime's promise, tho' the year be late. 

 Then glad as voices thro' the sunlight calling 



When friends return and hands are laid in ours, 

 Comes Heav'n's blest voice upon the darkness falling, 



That tells the brightness of Eternal hours. 

 Eternal Spring ! Eternal Spring ! 



Ah, life's November mist will pass away, 

 In brightness dawn the changeless Springtime day ; 

 Hope on ! trust on ! God's promise shall not fail 

 Eternal Spring beyond the Veil, beyond the Veil ! 



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