(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939 / County Dublin / Ireland)

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.

User Rating: 3,0 / 5 ( 37 votes ) 8

Comments (8)

Why they al read by woman? ?
" A drunkard is a dead man, And all dead men are drunk" What a comparison and love for drinks?
......A drunkard is a dead man, /And all dead men are drunk..An insightful piece of verse!
good poem.....drives home the effects of booze.
this is a nice poem..kept on reading this last night...
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