Infant Winter, young November,
Â Â Nursling of the glowing woods,
Lo! the sleep is burst that bound theeâ€”
Lift thine eyes above, around thee,
Â Â Infant sire of storm and floods.
Through the tangled green and golden
Â Â Curtains of thy valley bed,
See the trees hath vied to woo thee,
And with homage to subdue theeâ€”
Â Â Showâ€™ring bright leaves oâ€™er thy head.
Let, oh! let their fading glories
Â Â Grace the earth while still they may,
For the poplarâ€™s-orange, gleaming,
And the beechâ€™s ruddy beaming,
Â Â Warmer seems to make the day.
Now the massy plane-leafâ€™s twirling,
Â Â Down the misty morning light,
And the saugh-treeâ€™s tinted treasure
Seems to seek the earth with pleasureâ€”
Â Â Showâ€™ring down from morn till night.
Through the seasons, ever varying,
Â Â Rapture fills the human soul;
Blessed dower! to mankind given,
All is perfect under heaven,
Â Â In the part as in the whole.
Hush'd the golden flute of mavis,
Â Â Silver pipe of little wren,
But the readbreastâ€™s notes are ringing,
And its "weel-kent" breast is bringing
Â Â Storied boyhood back again.
Woodland splendour of November,
Â Â Did departing Autumn dye
All thy foliage, that when roaminâ€™
We might picturâ€™dâ€”see her gloaminâ€™
Â Â In thy woods as in her sky.