NOVEMBER. 
The mellow year is hasting to its close, 
The little birds have almost sung their last ; 
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast — 
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows. 
The patient beauty of the scentless rose, 
Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, 
Hangs, a pale mourner for the Summer past, 
And makes a little Summer where it grows. 
In the chill sunbeam of the faint, brief day, 
The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; 
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way 
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define ; 
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, 
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. 
Hartley Coleridge. 
-oafS-Bc©- 
