SCENTS, sounds, as of November fill the air: Of myriad blossoms down wet pathways strown; Of ragged leaves off steaming branches blown And dropped into dank hollows here and there. Keen little gusts go whirling through the hush, Driving the mist before them up the lane. And lo, the lovely world grows ours again! -- The orchard fences, the one eider bush, Prone with its white face in the thick drenched grass, The rows of apple-trees, gnarled, dripping, sweet, The highway with its pools agleam like glass; Then, as still speeds the mist on shining feet, Meadow, and wood, peaked roofs -- beyond them shows A windy west, the color of a rose. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TROILUS AND CRESSIDA: SONG by JOHN DRYDEN THE BARD; A PINDARIC ODE by THOMAS GRAY SONNET OF HIS LADY IN HEAVEN by JACOPO DA LENTINO SONNET: 19. ON HIS BLINDNESS by JOHN MILTON MOLLY PITCHER [JUNE 28, 1778] by KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD FROM AN EXCAVATION ON THE WARRIOR RIVER by ESTHER BARRETT ARGO PSALM 113 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE |