Poem by John Payne

November

THE tale of wake is told; the stage is bare,
The curtain falls upon the ended play;
November's fogs arise, to hide away
The withered wrack* of that which was so fair:     [ruin]
Summer is gone to be with things that were.
The sun is fallen from his ancient sway;
The night primaeval trenches* on the day:     [encroaches] upon
Without, the Winter waits upon the stair.
Stern herald of the wintry wrath to come,
The mist-month treads upon October's feet,
Muting the small birds' songs, the insects' hum,
And all involving in its winding-sheet,
'Graves on the frontal of the failing year,
"All hope abandon, ye who enter here!"

1. The Foredawn Hour
2. September
3. July
4. August
5. June

Duncan Scott November ("Above the lifeless pools the mist films swim")

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