Old November, sere and brown, <br />Clothes the country, haunts the town, <br />Sheds its cloak of withered leaves, <br />Brings its sighing, soughing breeze. <br />Prophet of the dying year, <br />Builder of its funeral bier, <br />Bring your message here to men; <br />Sound it forth that they may ken <br />What of Life and what of Death <br />Linger on your frosty breath. <br />Let men know to you are given <br />Days of thanks to God in heaven; <br />Thanks for things which we deem best, <br />Thanks, O God, for all the rest <br />That have taught us--(trouble, strife, <br />Bring thru Death a larger life)-- <br />Death of our base self and fear-- <br />(Even as the dying year, <br />Though through cold and frost, shall bring <br />Forth a new and glorious spring)-- <br />Shall shed over us the sway <br />Of a new and brighter day, <br />With Hope, Faith and Love alway.<br /><br />Joseph Seamon Cotter<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/november-9/
