THE mellow year is hasting to its close: <br />The little birds have almost sung their last, <br />Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast - <br />That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows; - <br />The patient beauty of the scentless rose, <br />Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, <br />Hangs a pale mourner for the summer past, <br />And makes a little summer where it grows; - <br />In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day <br />The dusky waters shudder as they shine; <br />The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way <br />Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define, <br />And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, <br />Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine.<br /><br />Hartley Coleridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/november-30/
