Sunday, November 5, 2017


November is that historied Emperor, 
Conquered in age, but foot to foot with fate, 
Who from his refuge high has heard the roar 
Of squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late, 
Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war, 
And arms the garrison of his last heirloom, 
And shakes the sky to its extremest shore 
With battle against irrevocable doom. 

Till, driven and hurled from his strong citadels, 
He flies in hurrying cloud and spurs him on, 
Empty of lingerings, empty of farewells 
And final benedictions, and is gone. 
But in my garden all the trees have shed 
Their legacies of the light, and all the flowers are dead.

~Hilaire Belloc

A November Night, by John Atkinson Grimshaw (1836 - 1893).

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