Miracle, and Other Poems

<h2 id="id00272" style="margin-top: 4em">NOVEMBER</h2> <p id="id00273">How like a hooded friar, bent and grey,<br/> Whose pensive lips speak only when they pray<br/> Doth sad November pass upon his way.<br/></p> <p id="id00274">Through forest aisles while the wind chanteth low—<br/> In God's cathedral where the great trees grow,<br/> Now all day long he paceth to and fro.<br/></p> <p id="id00275">When shadows gather and the night-mists rise,<br/> Up to the hills he lifts his sombre eyes<br/> To where the last red rose of sunset lies.<br/></p> <p id="id00276">A little smile he weareth, wise and cold,<br/> The smile of one to whom all things are old,<br/> And life is weary, as a tale twice told.<br/></p> <p id="id00277">"Come see," he seems to say—"where joy has fled—<br/> The leaves that burned but yesterday so red<br/> Have turned to ashes—and the flowers are dead.<br/></p> <p id="id00278">"The summer's green and gold hath taken flight,<br/> October days have gone. Now bleached and white<br/> Winter doth come with many a lonely night.<br/></p> <p id="id00279">"And though the people will not heed or stay,<br/> But pass with careless laughter on their way,<br/> Even I, with rain of tears, will wait and pray."<br/></p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />