O sing of November, a beautiful time,
When the sound of the wind seems to whisper in rhyme.
When the trees drop their leaves in a golden spray,
And ever shorter grows the day.
O sing of the fall time, when dew turns to frost,
When the roses of summer are but sleeping, not lost;
When the world shows around it a gorgeous array,
And ever shorter grows the day.
O sing of the autumn, when falleth the cold,
When a wintery feeling begins to take hold;
When the world's chilly breath blows your sorrows away,
And ever shorter grows the day.
O sing of the season when the wind chills the bones,
When the soft, fertile ground freezes harder than stones;
When a bittersweet feeling envelopes the gray,
And ever shorter grows the day.
O sing of November, when the year groweth old,
When the wind whistles stories that haven't been told;
When in joy to the Maker of autumn we pray,
And ever shorter grows the day.
©2015 JonquilJunction
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