Darja Petrin

“NOVEMBER

Now chill & grey November
Come slowly o'er the plain,
Drearily the winter wind
Sings songs of future pain.

Wrapped closely in deep grey,
She scarcely will let pass
A little ray of sun
To cheer the sodden grass.

She scatters with her hand
The leaves dried up and brown,
The few that yet remain
From gay October's crown.

Her eyes and dark and sad,
Sad for the dying year,
And often in the mist
There falls a silent tear.

Beneath a cheerless sky
The trees are standing bare,
The fog has risen thick
And she is no more there.”
― Beatrice Crane