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NOVEMBER.

Besides the autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the haze.

A few incisive mornings, A few ascetic eyes, --Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod, And Mr. Thomson's sheaves.

Still is the bustle in the brook, Sealed are the spicy valves;Mesmeric fingers softly touch The eyes of many elves.

Perhaps a squirrel may remain, My sentiments to share.

Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind, Thy windy will to bear!