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Home  »  The Book of the Sonnet  »  Charles Lloyd (1775–1839)

Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.

To November

Charles Lloyd (1775–1839)

DISMAL November! me it soothes to view,

At parting day, the scanty foliage fall

From the wet fruit-tree; or the gray stone-wall,

Whose cold films glisten with unwholesome dew;

To watch the yellow mists from the dank earth

Enfold the neighboring copse; while, as they pass,

The silent rain-drops bend the long rank grass,

Which wraps some blossom’s unmaturéd birth.

And through my cot’s lone lattice, glimmering gray,

The damp, chill evenings have a charm for me,

Dismal November! for strange vacancy

Summoneth then my very heart away!

Till from mist-hidden spire comes the slow knell,

And says, that in the still air Death doth dwell!