IN this November though I bend.
My heart I cannot find a friend
About the wood. The green is down
From water-mead to forest crown;
(Save where the myrtle in the lane
Paints the gray sod an emerald stain;
Save where the pines below the hill
Glow with the suns of summer still).
The hardy juniper to dust
Corrodes in this autumnal rust.
The goldenrod and aster-head
Are black and broke and more than dead.
This morning, fog about the height
Creeps up and chokes the growing light;
Lies like a blanket through the wood,
And doubly trebles solitude.
And when the sun above the mist
Shall clear a space of amethyst,
He too shall hunt, November-blind,
A friend about the wood to find.