O sadness of November! when, forlorn,
The grey year has outlived her latest leaf,
And lies, too dim and numb for any grief,
Between fruition past, and hope unborn;

When fog inertly shrouds unbeauteous morn
In pulseless and dishevelled apathy
That cares not if the day begin to be,
So futureless it is, so very worn!

Such moods are ours when life outlives its love
And has no tears, nor any warm regret;
When sense hangs soulless as the clouds above
That lack the force to rain; but linger yet

Veiling drear things that live not any more,
Yet are not dead enough to bury and deplore.