November

THE stars spring out: and measures which are cold,
Ringing the anvil of the night, convene
A stricter parliament. Now I have seen
Nearly the cycle, how a heart was bold
And grows less bold, how an immortal green
Habit of youth is worn and wearied. Now
Stars prickle with fierce frost behind the bough:
And I am ready for the lessening, lean
Anxiety of having lived. Shall I allow
The keener poverty or shall I set
My face against the night not to forget
Laughter and light, or death’s mean traffic, how
Stale skies lean down on city parapet
Or how man strides upon a hill to plow?