In November (1)

  The leafless forests slowly yield
  To the thick-driving snow. A little while
  And night shall darken down. In shouting file
  The woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled,
  Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed,
  Now golden-gray, sowed softly through with snow,
  Where the last ploughman follows still his row,
  Turning black furrows through the whitening field.
  Far off the village lamps begin to gleam,
  Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way;
  The hills grow wintry white, and bleak winds moan
  About the naked uplands. I alone
  Am neither sad, nor shelterless, nor gray,
  Wrapped round with thought, content to watch and dream.