The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse
NovemberAlexander Louis Fraser (18701954)
E
Where bare woods mourn
Shall soon upon Wind’s silvery bier
Be gravewards borne.
The birds are fled;
And ’neath the blight of frost our flowers
Have fallen—dead!
No grazing yields:
No bells are heard, no flocks are seen
In far, fenced fields.
Was wet with dew,
Autumn, to-day, with threatening sound
Snow trumpets blew.
Fear not November’s challenge bold—
We’ve books and friends;
And hearths that never can grow cold:
These make amends!