TO WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, ESQ. Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest. NOVEMBER'S sky is chill and drear, No longer Autumn's glowing red No more, beneath the evening beam, The sheep, before the pinching heaven, My imps, though hardy, bold and wild, Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower Again shall paint your summer bower; Again the hawthorn shall supply The garlands you delight to tie; The lambs upon the lea shall bound, The wild birds carol to the round, And while you frolic light as they, Too short shall seem the summer day. To mute and to material things New life reve'ving summer brings; |