November Eves

November Evenings! Damp and still

They used to cloak Leckhampton hill,

And lie down close on the grey plain,

And dim the dripping window-pane,

And send queer winds like Harlequins

That seized our elms for violins

And struck a note so sharp and low

Even a child could feel the woe.

Now fire chased shadow round the room;

Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom:

We crept about like mice, while Nurse

Sat mending, solemn as a hearse,

And even our unlearned eyes

Half closed with choking memories.

Is it the mist or the dead leaves,

Or the dead men November eves?