November

The shepherds almost wonder where they dwell

And the old dog for his right journey stares:

The path leads somewhere, but they cannot tell

And neighbour meets with neighbour unawares.

The maiden passes close beside her cow,

And wanders on, and thinks her far away;

The ploughman goes unseen behind his plough,

And seems to lose his horses half the day.

The lazy mist creeps on in journey slow;

The maidens shout and wonder where they go;

Do dull and dark are the November days.

The lazy mist high up the evening curled,

And now the morn quite hides in smoke and haze;

The place we ocupy seems all the world.