November Wind

There is a stir of voices in the air,

The beat of mighty wings high overhead.

Out of the night, with trumpet and fanfare,

The hosts of death are calling to the dead!

In a wild flood the long dark waves go sweeping,

Searching each cranny of the earth and sky;

And in their wake they leave a sound of weeping

For frail and lovely things gone down to die.

Treasured or trivial, these tides discover

Dreams that were hidden long and quietly,

And when the last great gust is past and over

Nothing is left but stark reality.

The world looks skyward, very cold and clear,

After the windy tumult of the year.