Dull, dimly gleaming, <br />The dawn looks downward <br />Where, flowing townward, <br />The river, steaming <br />With mist, is hidden: <br />Each bush, that huddles <br />Beside the road, the rain has pooled with puddles, <br />Seems, in the fog, a hag or thing hag-ridden. <br /> <br />II. <br /> <br />Where leaves hang tattered <br />In forest tangles, <br />And woodway angles <br />Are acorn-scattered, <br />Coughing and yawning <br />The woodsman slouches, <br />Or stands as silent as the hound that crouches <br />Beside him, ghostly in the mist-drenched dawning. <br /> <br />III. <br /> <br />Through roses, rotting <br />Within the garden, <br />With blooms, that harden, <br />Of marigolds, knotting, <br />(Each one an ember <br />Dull, dead and dripping,) <br />Her brow, from which their faded wreath is slipping, <br />Mantled in frost and fog, comes in November.<br /><br />Madison Julius Cawein<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gray-november/
