Madison Julius Cawein (Мэдисон Джулиус Кавейн)
In November
No windy white of wind-blown clouds is thine, No windy white but low and sodden gray, That holds the melancholy skies and kills The wild song and the wild bird; yet, ai me! Thy melancholy skies and mournful woods, Brown, sighing forests dying that I love! Thy long thick leaves deep, deep about my feet, Slow, weary feet that halt or falter on; Thy long, sweet, reddened leaves that burn and die With silent fever of the sickened wold. I love to hear in all thy windy coigns, Rain-wet and choked with bleached and rotting weeds, The baby-babble of the many leaves, That, fallen on barren ways, like fallen hopes Once held so high on all the Summer's heart Of strong majestic trees, now come to such, Would fainly gossip in hushed undertones, - Sad weak yet sweet as natures that have known True tears and hot in bleak remorseless days, - Of all their whilom glory vanished so.
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