November comes
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the busket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the busket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.
~Elizabeth Coatsworth
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