Shine on the kangaroo, thou sun!

Make far New Zealand faint with fear!
Don't hurry back to spoil our fun,

Thank goodness, old October's here!

Thomas Constable [1812-1881]

NOVEMBER

WHEN thistle-blows do lightly float

About the pasture-height,

And shrills the hawk a parting note,

And creeps the frost at night,

Then hilly ho! though singing so,
And whistle as I may,

There comes again the old heart pain
Through all the livelong day.

In high wind creaks the leafless tree
And nods the fading fern;

The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be,

And cold the sun does burn.
Then ho, hollo! though calling so,

I cannot keep it down;

The tears arise unto my eyes,

And thoughts are chill and brown.

Far in the cedars' dusky stoles,
Where the sere ground-vine weaves,

The partridge drums funereal rolls
Above the fallen leaves.

And hip, hip, ho! though cheering so,

It stills no whit the pain;

For drip, drip, drip, from bare-branch tip,

I hear the year's last rain.

So drive the cold cows from the hill,

And call the wet sheep in;

And let their stamping clatter fill

The barn with warming din.

And ho, folk, ho! though it be so

That we no more may roam,
We still will find a cheerful mind
Around the fire at home!

C. L. Cleaveland [18 ? 1

Storm Fear

1385

NOVEMBER

HARK you such sound as quivers? Kings will hear,
As kings have heard, and tremble on their thrones;
The old will feel the weight of mossy stones;
The young alone will laugh and scoff at fear.
It is the tread of armies marching near,

From scarlet lands to lands forever pale;
It is a bugle dying down the gale;
It is the sudden gushing of a tear.
And it is hands that grope at ghostly doors;
And romp of spirit-children on the pave;
It is the tender sighing of the brave
Who fell, ah! long ago, in futile wars;

It is such sound as death; and, after all,
'Tis but the forest letting dead leaves fall.
Mahlon Leonard Fisher [1874-

STORM FEAR

WHEN the wind works against us in the dark,

And pelts with snow

The lower chamber window on the east,

And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,

"Come out! Come out!"

It costs no inward struggle not to go,

Ah, no!

I count our strength,

Two and a child,

Those of us not asleep subdued to mark

How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,

How drifts are piled,

Dooryard and road ungraded,

Till even the comforting barn grows far away

And my heart owns a doubt

Whether 'tis in us to arise with day

And save ourselves unaided.

Robert Frost [1875

WINTER: A DIRGE

THE wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain does blaw;

Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:

While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," The joyless winter day,

Let others fear,-to me more dear

Than all the pride of May;

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join;

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest,--they must be best,

Because they are Thy will.

Then all I want (oh, do Thou grant

This one request of mine!)

Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,

Assist me to resign!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

OLD WINTER

OLD Winter sad, in snow yclad,

Is making a doleful din;

But let him howl till he crack his jowl,

We will not let him in.

Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift

His hoary, haggard form,

And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand
Outstretching to the storm.

The Frost

And let his weird and sleety beard
Stream loose upon the blast,

And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime
From his bald head falling fast.

Let his baleful breath shed blight and death

On herb and flower and tree;

And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds

Bind fast, but what care we?

1387

Let him push at the door,-in the chimney roar,

And rattle the window-pane;

Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye,

But he shall not entrance gain.

Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth,

On our roof-tiles, till he tire;

But we care not a whit, as we jovial sit

Before our blazing fire.

Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring;

Come, push the can about;

From our snug fire-side this Christmas-tide

We'll keep old Winter out.

Thomas Noel [1799-1861]

THE FROST

THE Frost looked forth, one still, clear night,
And he said, "Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height
In silence I'll take my way.

I will not go like that blustering train,

The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they!"

Then he went to the mountain, and powdered its crest, He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he dressed With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast

Of the quivering lake he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane like a fairy crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,
By the light of the moon were seen

Most beautiful things. There were flowers and trees,
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees,

There were cities, thrones, temples, and towers, and these
All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair,—
He peeped in the cupboard, and, finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare,-
"Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he;
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking.”

Hannah Flagg Gould [1789-1865]

THE FROSTED PANE

ONE night came Winter noiselessly and leaned
Against my window-pane.

In the deep stillness of his heart convened

The ghosts of all his slain.

Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth,

And fugitives of grass,

White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth,

He drew them on the glass.

Charles G. D. Roberts [1860

THE FROST SPIRIT

HE comes, he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! You may

trace his footsteps now

On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown

hill's withered brow.