THE wild November comes at last 

Beneath a veil of rain; 

The night wind blows its folds aside— 

Her face is full of pain. 

The latest of her race, she takes 

The Autumn's vacant throne: 

She has but one short moon to live, 

And she must live alone! 

A barren realm of withered fields; 

Bleak woods and falling leaves; 

The palest morns that ever dawned; 

The dreariest of eves. 

It is no wonder that she comes, 

Poor month! With tears of pain; 

For what can one so helpless do 

But weep, and weep again.