November Song

A leaden sky sits sullenly
upon a ground gone grey with age,
and caring nothing whether we
seek solace from the season,
it makes a mockery of all
the fervor of October's rage:
its angry crimson leaves that fall
condemning summer's treason.
Here, barren trees in somber tryst
knot fingers in the creeping mist,
lamenting dismal clouds that kissed
them cold upon the shoulder
as, shrouded in a brooding haze,
they fade to melancholy greys,
a mute reminder that the days
are old and getting older.

One wren in royal solitude
calls plaintive in the faded glade:
adagio in pensive mood
for grey days without number.
Dispirited, the foxes go
abroad in fields that life betrayed,
gone dim and stale before the snow
comes calling them to slumber.
Forlorn, the listless seasons wane;
the wren in dolorous refrain
sings requiems where life lies slain,
and all the world is weary.
No argument and no demur
from child of feathers or of fur:
November, winter's harbinger,
has fallen bleak and dreary.