How like a hooded friar, bent and grey,
Whose pensive lips speak only when they pray
Doth sad November pass upon his way.

Through forest aisles while the wind chanteth low--
In God's cathedral where the great trees grow,
Now all day long he paceth to and fro.

When shadows gather and the night-mists rise,
Up to the hills he lifts his sombre eyes
To where the last red rose of sunset lies.

A little smile he weareth, wise and cold,
The smile of one to whom all things are old,
And life is weary, as a tale twice told.

'Come see,' he seems to say--'where joy has fled--
The leaves that burned but yesterday so red
Have turned to ashes--and the flowers are dead.

'The summer's green and gold hath taken flight,
October days have gone. Now bleached and white
Winter doth come with many a lonely night.

'And though the people will not heed or stay,
But pass with careless laughter on their way,
Even I, with rain of tears, will wait and pray.'