f | ^HE starlings pipe and whisper in the trees, 
Now loud, now low, for Autumn’s lease is run; 
The skies are stiller than still summer seas, 
As sinks in shining and translucent ease 
The late November sun. 
November sunset—and a phantom moon 
That floats, a shell-pale sickle, in the blue; 
The light that comes—the light that goes so soon, 
Both with the season’s silence seem in tune, 
With my heart’s silence too. 
This misty hour, whose garrulous birds will cease 
Their fitful gossip as the west grows pale, 
Breathes it not more of solace and release 
Than sunsets golden as the Golden Fleece 
Or song of nightingale ? 
