Come walk a mile with me — November!— Faintly
The long, blue hills lift to the eastern sky;
‘ Tis Indian-summer now — this day seems saintly,
Like some good martyr e'er he goes to die;
The skies are cloudless; not a breeze is blowing,
And silent is each bare and leafless form;
The brooks — how quiet!— I like not their flowing,
For oh,— it is the calm before the storm.
Yes, yes — e'en now — to Westward — look! a figure
Is sudden forming, stretching forth a wand,
Shaping a shape as of some giant, bigger
Than any fabled thing from Fairyland;
Higher and higher that strange shape is lifting,
Swifter and swifter its fleet heralds run,
Wider and wider its white breath is drifting
As lower sinks the slow decending sun;
And now — the storm!— the storm is on us. Hurry!
Yet see!— the myriad snow-flakes — see them come!
O Comrade!— See!— it is young Winter's flurry —
And yet‘ tis but the storm that drives us home.