Autumn wins you best by this, its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay. — Robert Browning

 My girl Iranda:


November comes

And November goes,

With the last red berries

And the first white snows.


With night coming early,

And dawn coming late,

And ice in the bucket

And frost by the gate.


The fires burn

And the kettles sing,

And earth sinks to rest

Until next spring.



































































































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