November
Poem
 
by
Elizabeth Coatsworth
 
November
comes
 
And
November
goes,
 
With
 
the
last
red
berries
 
And
 
the
first
white
snows.
 
With
night
coming
early,
 
And
dawn
coming
late,
 
And
ice
in
 
the
bucket
 
And
frost
by
 
the
gate.
 
 
The
fires
burn
 
And
 
the
kettles
sing,
 
And
earth
sinks
 
to
rest
 
Until
next
spring.