November by John Payne

Lyrics
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: Summer is gone to be with things that were The sun is fallen from his ancient sway; The night primaeval trenches on the day: 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 insеcts' hum And all involving in its winding-sheet 'Graves on the frontal of the failing yеar 'All hope abandon, ye who enter here!'
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Credits
- Writers
- John Payne (Poet)