The street lamps shed their meager light,
mist wove its wisps about the town,
a chilly twilight shuttered tight
all windows, drawing curtains down.
Then, growing white, not vapor-soft
but heavy, like a lowered load,
dusk let a fragile hoarfrost waft
onto the sidewalks and the road.
November midnight: winter's eve,
a helpless longing, taut distress
of autumn strings in mute reprieve,
leave-taking, but without redress…
A sketch from nature? — No: the time
was filled with flowers, springlike-bright,
when suddenly the poet's mind
envisioned this November night.
About him warm th and sunlight shone,
young foliage gleamed, birds flitted, gay,
everything bloomed, — his soul alone
had left this blossoming of May.
He roamed along deserted roads,
where street lamps shed their meager light,
where mist in pungent smoke-rings rose,
where hoarfrost tinged sidewalks white.
