November is that historied Emperor, <br />Conquered in age, but foot to foot with fate, <br />Who from his refuge high has heard the roar <br />Of squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late, <br />Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war, <br />And arms the garrison of his last heirloom, <br />And shakes the sky to its extremest shore <br />With battle against irrevocable doom. <br /> <br />Till, driven and hurled from his strong citadels, <br />He flies in hurrying cloud and spurs him on, <br />Empty of lingerings, empty of farewells <br />And final benedictions, and is gone. <br />But in my garden all the trees have shed <br />Their legacies of the light, and all the flowers are dead.<br /><br />Hilaire Belloc<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/month-of-november/
