In November

The ruddy sunset lies
Banked along the west;
In flocks with sweep and rise
The birds are going to rest.

The air clings and cools,
And the reeds look cold,
Standing above the pools,
Like rods of beaten gold.

The flaunting golden-rod
Has lost her worldly mood,
She's given herself to God,
And taken a nun's hood.

The wild and wanton horde,
That kept the summer revel,
Have taken the serge and cord,
And given the slip to the Devil.

The winter's loose somewhere,
Gathering snow for a fight;
From the feel of the air
I think it will freeze to-night.