November, by Madison Cawein

  The shivering wind sits in the oaks, whose limbs,
  Twisted and tortured, nevermore are still;
  Grief and decay sit with it; they, whose chill
  Autumnal touch makes hectic-red the rims
  Of all the oak leaves; desolating, dims
  The ageratum's blue that banks the rill;
  And splits the milkweed's pod upon the hill,
  And shakes it free of the last seed that swims.
  Down goes the day despondent to its close:
  And now the sunset's hands of copper build
  A tower of brass, behind whose burning bars
  The day, in fierce, barbarian repose,
  Like some imprisoned Inca sits, hate-filled,
  Crowned with the gold corymbus of the stars.


  There is a booming in the forest boughs;
  Tremendous feet seem trampling through the trees:
  The storm is at his wildman revelries,
  And earth and heaven echo his carouse.
  Night reels with tumult; and, from out her house
  Of cloud, the moon looks,—like a face one sees
  In nightmare,—hurrying, with pale eyes that freeze
  Stooping above with white, malignant brows.
  The isolated oak upon the hill,
  That seemed, at sunset, in terrific lands
  A Titan head black in a sea of blood,
  Now seems a monster harp, whose wild strings thrill
  To the vast fingering of innumerable hands—
  Spirits of tempest and of solitude.