Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon

November

Together we laughed and talked in the warm--lit room:
Out now, alone I come
Into the street, in the fall of the early night.
Shadowy skies, with a pale uncertain gloom,
Hover above the houses dim; but bright
In wetness mirrored far,
Retreating lamps outshine the lingering light.
Hazily blue the air, heavy with dews
The wind; and before me the cries and the crowd,
And the sleepless murmur of wheels; not loud,
For a magical softness all imbrues.
The softness estranges my sense: I see and I hear,
But know 'tis a vision intangible, shapes that seem.
All is unreal; the sound of the falling of feet,
Coming figures, and far--off hum of the street;
A dream, the gliding hurry, the endless lights,
Houses and sky, a dream, a dream! 

1. Magnets
2. Whitechapel High Road
3. As in the Dusty Lane to Fern or Flower
4. The Winds of All the World
5. Nothing Is Enough!

Edward Thomas November ("NOVEMBER'S days are thirty")

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