Poemsby Emily Dickinson

November

 Besides the autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the haze. 
 A few incisive mornings, A few ascetic eyes, - Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod, And Mr. Thomson's sheaves. 
 Still is the bustle in the brook, Sealed are the spicy valves; Mesmeric fingers softly touch The eyes of many elves. 
 Perhaps a squirrel may remain, My sentiments to share. Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind, Thy windy will to bear!