Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air of the garden*' 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 



NOVEMBER 



/ "T A HE last leaves are fast fragrantly falling 



" The last leaves fall, the acorn softly drops ; 



All things come round at their appointed time. 



The opening primroses, the fragrant lime, 

 The Summer's rose, the Autumn's golden crops. 

 The last bird flies athwart the windy wave, 



The last rose sheds its leaves in Autumn's lap ; 



And stays the flow of leaf life-giving sap. 

 All things come round, the birthday and the grave. 

 The last voice dies ; now in the thinned, hushed wood 



Are forest kings stripped of their diadems, 

 Through all the misty hours their branches sigh. 



The coral jewels, the birds'* bright winter food, 

 Blush in brown settings on leaf-empty stems ; 

 All things come round Spring shall come by-and-by." 



In Nature all things come round in their wonderful 

 order ; thus in its turn Autumn came, and its last hours 

 now linger with us. The almost halcyon time but lately 

 vanished, with its revived Summer memories and sequence 

 of beautiful days generally the wettest period of the year 

 proved for once the driest. The November woods are all 

 but empty of leaves ; most of them along frequented paths 

 have been swept away or trodden underfoot, although in 

 coppice, where they remain undisturbed, they still beautify 

 the ground with their patches of blended colour, especially 

 beautiful where the faint sunshine, falling upon them through 

 the leafless branches, dapples them with light : soon must 

 those few that have braved the weather and still flutter in 



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