In November Poem by Philip Henry Savage

JUNIPER gentle and rosemarie!
There 's neat brown cones on the yellow larch,
With scarlet haws on the gray thorn-tree.
Ah, the year is long since the first of March!

A leaf is welcome along the lane,
Periwinkle and wintergreen.
But they sleep asleep in the icy rain,
And the wreck of summer is gray between.

Shafted bennets above the mat
Of the sodden grass, in the steady wind
Whistle a warning caveat,
As the hoarse gray month comes on behind.

A hungry gull, blown in from sea,
Comes swift and fierce like a sudden Sin.
The cold rain creeps on the leafless tree.
Ah well! let beautiful death begin.